


By Any Name

by acme146



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU After TRF, Destroying Moriarty's Web, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Relationship Study, Sherlock Series 2 Spoilers, Travels Around Europe, disguises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-10 18:19:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5596066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acme146/pseuds/acme146
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. When Sherlock leaves London after the Fall, he takes John with him. Together, they have to take apart Moriarty’s Web, but (obviously) they can’t do it as themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings! The idea for this story came from the way they ended Series 2, and after having been to many of the cities they visit myself I decided to give it a go. This chapter picks up right as the show fades to black, as John turns away from the headstone while Sherlock watches...

John walked away from Sherlock’s headstone, head held high, eyes dried. He’d said his piece, even though he was fairly certain Sherlock couldn’t hear him, wherever the git was. He had to try to feel better now, move on. That was all he could do. 

Then his phone rang.  
Hoping it wasn’t Mrs. Hudson (he couldn’t talk to her again today), Lestrade (he still really wanted to punch the man for not standing up for Sherlock), or Mycroft (he didn’t even want to think about that miserable excuse for a brother), John answered the phone. 

“Walk out of the graveyard and turn right.” 

John began moving immediately, heading for the gate. He’d obeyed that voice hundreds of times in the last eighteen months. Why stop now…

John stopped as pain crashed into him again. He kept trying to work through it—he’s gone, that’s it, having a cry about it won’t bring him back, the violin’s not going to wake you up from nightmares anymore, deal with it—but little things still set him off. 

Hearing his dead friend’s voice coming out of his phone was one of them.

“Who the HELL is this?!” he shouted. 

“Walk out of the graveyard and turn right.” 

It sounded like him, aggravating bossiness and all. 

“Mycroft, if this is you, I swear to God I will kill you. I don’t give a damn what’ll happen to me.” 

“John…just do it, alright?” The voice changed, sounding more uncertain. 

John put a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes. Could it be a recording? Must be, or a damn good imitation. A trap of some kind? Moriarty’s gang trying to finish the job?

Lovely. 

“Alright, listen, I’m not sure who you are, and I don’t particularly care. All you need to know is that when I get to the end of this trail, you better have a gun, because I’ve got one.”

When Sherlock found out that Moriarty had been released, he immediately ordered John to carry his gun with him at all times, after he’d modified any parts that would be picked up by metal detectors or scanners. John told him to stuff his orders, he wasn’t his bloody slave, and then carried the gun anyways. 

The caller was silent for a minute. 

“Walk out of the graveyard and turn right,” John finally heard. This time, ‘Sherlock’s’ voice sounded resigned. “I promise you’ll be put out of your misery.”

“If I don’t put you out of yours first,” John promised. 

He did as instructed, walking for several metres before being told to turn left, then right, then left again. The caller sounded quieter and quieter as he moved, and John increased his pace. He wanted to see this person, and preferably punch them as well. That would work better if his damn hand stopped shaking. 

Finally he reached his apparent destination; a small, miserable looking church. It was early Thursday afternoon, and the lot was nearly empty of cars. 

“Right, where to next?” he asked, trying to sound business like, trying to keep the murderous rage out of his tone. 

There was a pause. “You’ll figure it out,” the caller said quietly, and hung up. 

John stamped down the urge to curse aloud. This bloke was clearly looking for trouble. Very well, John would oblige. 

Putting his phone back in his pocket, he looked at the church. He wasn’t particularly religious, and he’d never been to this church in his life. How was he supposed to know where to go?

And then John remembered. 

He and Sherlock were supposed to be catching a pickpocket targeting churchgoers. Even Sherlock thought that was stooping quite low—“for God’s sake, most people fall asleep in church, it’s easier than stealing from tourists”—and agreed to one evening’s distraction. 

That church had been small too, right on the outskirts of London, and newcomers were easily spotted. Sherlock was going to be the visiting minister, so that was easy, but no disguise would make John ‘familiar’.

Sherlock’s solution was simple. “Just sit by the organ player,” he scoffed. “No one looks over there; most people don’t even know they’re listening to live music.” John was doubtful, but did as instructed and to his surprise the entire congregation was shocked at his sudden appearance when the thief pulled a knife. 

John immediately went inside, one hand on his gun. He bypassed the empty pews and went straight up the stairs, looking for the organ. 

Taped above the keys was a note. “Meet me in the basement.”

John scoffed. Real hard to fake someone’s handwriting. He was still secretly pleased that he figured it out. Though as he looked around for stairs, something occurred to him.

How had the caller known to do that? The church case had never been written up, too short to be interesting to outsiders, too long for a quick blurb. 

He shook his head. Unimportant for now. He’d be getting answers in a minute. 

Once he found the staircase to the basement, John glanced around and pulled out his gun. He had enough respect for places of worship to want to avoid murder on the premises, but he wasn’t going to go down easily. 

The basement looked dark, and the light switch had no effect. John gritted his teeth and started going down the stairs, left hand still shaking and his leg stiffening. His right hand were perfectly steady, however, and he knew he would be ready. 

When he got to the bottom of the stairs he stood still, unwilling to grope towards death in the dark. “Alright, I’m here. What do you want?”

The lights went on so quickly John had to shut his eyes. They were too bloody bright for a church basement, he grumbled to himself.

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was standing at the other end of the room. 

John closed his eyes again. “No.”

“John—” Sherlock’s voice was weaker than he remembered, certainly than he’d sounded on the phone.

“No. You can’t be there. You died. I saw you.”

"John—” 

“I was there, Sherlock! I saw the entire damn thing; what, I can’t trust my eyes?!” 

“John—”  
“That was one thing you drummed into my head, trust your senses. That was one thing you did for me, made sure that I could believe you were gone…” John pressed his lips together. This wasn’t possible. 

Sherlock looked horrified. He took a tentative step forward. John knew he should pull his gun out, threaten this imposter—it couldn’t be a hallucination, hallucinations couldn’t write signs—but he stood frozen. He knew this was impossible, but he would let the other man show it, ruin his own illusion. 

Sherlock crossed the room carefully, hands held up. “John, I might have misinformed you. You should trust your senses…unless I’m trying to fool you.”

John snorted. “Ah, I see, thanks for the distinction. I’ll remember that the next time my dead friend talks to me.”

“John, I’m not dead.” Sherlock looked exhausted, and John could see bandages peeking out from beneath the sleeves of his coat. 

“You are,” John whispered. He tried again to hold up his gun, but now both hands were shaking.

“Moriarty surprised me. He had snipers following you, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade.” Sherlock was still walking towards him, and John couldn’t move. “Our charming neighbours were the assassins. Unless I jumped, you would all die.”

“So you jumped, and died,” John managed. “And now I’m going through an elaborate hallucination. Oh fantastic, it’s bloody Baskerville all over again!”

“No, it’s not. Try to keep up John. Obviously I wasn’t going to let Moriarty dictate the terms of my death, now was I? I tried to call his bluff, and…well, he shot himself in the head rather than give up the code to call off the snipers. I knew I had to go through with it.”

He was only six feet away now. Sherlock—the fake Sherlock, because it still didn’t make sense—looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, his eyes bloodshot and wary. 

“I had to make you believe it, otherwise the sniper would shoot you right there,” Sherlock whispered. “I tried to convince you, did everything I could to make it seem like suicide.”

“It didn’t work. I knew you weren’t a fraud. Then what?”

“I survived—Molly helped me get away as fast as I could—I’ve been getting ready to leave for the last week,” Sherlock rattled off, as though the details were unimportant.

“If you’re really alive, then why stay?” John asked. 

For the first time, Sherlock looked afraid. “I wanted—I couldn’t decide if—Mycroft thought it wasn’t a good idea—”

“Why are you here?” John interrupted.

Sherlock bowed his head. “I heard you, at the graveyard.”

John’s heart stood still. He realized that, in fact, he hadn’t wanted Sherlock to hear him.

“You never asked me for anything, all the time we knew each other. Not things that were challenging. How could I deny one request?” 

The two of them stared at each other.

“I knew I had to tell you I was still alive. So you wouldn’t hate yourself. So you wouldn’t…”

“Hate you?” John asked. His leg was no longer sore. He put his gun on the stair behind him. “Hate you for faking your death, for leaving me behind?” 

Sherlock didn’t answer. 

John took a step forward. Refusing to give into the hope that was rising out of the pain, he said “look me in the eye and tell me that this is real.”

Sherlock did look him in the eye.

Then he punched him in the shoulder.

The right shoulder, fortunately, but John still swore. “What the hell was that for?”

“I told you I was real,” Sherlock deadpanned. 

John stared at him for a long minute, wondering if he had gone insane. Then he started giggling, the same crazy giggle from after the first chase they’d ever had together, leaning against the wall at Baker Street, unable to believe how his luck had changed. 

Sherlock started laughing too. He stepped forward as he did, and for a second John forgot that he was an adult, male, and British, and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock and buried his face in his shoulder, still giggling. 

Sherlock was stiff, clearly surprised. “John—”

“Shut up,” John ordered between giggles, which he was alarmed to realize were turning to sobs. “I don’t believe it yet…I can’t believe it…”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around him carefully, holding him tighter as John actually started to cry. “It’s alright John,” he whispered. 

“I asked you to stop being dead,” John sobbed.

“I heard you,” Sherlock replied. John could feel him shaking too. “I heard you…”

They stood together, quiet for a minute. Dimly, John realized that this was the first time they’d ever hugged. And it had only taken Sherlock faking his death. Interesting.

Sherlock didn’t seem keen on letting go, so it was John who pulled away. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t apologize. I just put you through a very traumatic event, such a reaction is quite predictable.”

“Brilliant,” John rolled his eyes. He paused. “So what now?”

Sherlock shifted. “I have to go.”

“What?!”

“I told you, I have to leave. Moriarty’s network is nearly dealt with here, but it extends across the Continent, and it has to be dismantled. All it would need is someone else to step up to be the head, and there are too many power-hungry psychopaths among them.”

John knew he was right. Taking out the head wasn’t enough; they’d learned that when dealing with terrorist cells in Afghanistan. There was only one thing for it. 

“Take me with you.”

“What? No, I can’t do that.”

“Why not? I’ve been working with you for two years—”

“Eighteen months—”

“Eighteen months, then. We work well together, and I can watch your back, even if I can’t solve the case for you. You won’t have to worry about me giving the game away, and I don’t have to sit here worrying. You also won’t have to worry about me, say, getting on a plane and tracking you down.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me.” John wavered. “Sherlock, I can’t do this alone. And if I can, I don’t bloody want to. Besides, friends protect people.” He winced, but didn’t feel totally guilty for using those words again.

Sherlock looked at him. “You’ll be away from England for months, maybe years.”

“I could use a change of scenery.”

“You’ll be in disguise, something you’re rubbish at.”

“I can learn.”

“You can’t contact home, or any of our friends until we get back. They’ll have to think you’re dead.”

John winced at that, but held firm. “Better than them watching me walk around and pretend everything’s okay.”

Sherlock flinched. “We’ll be travelling light, probably in combat situations, in foreign countries.”

“I knew invading Afghanistan would be useful someday.”

Sherlock smiled at that quickly. “And most important for you to consider…it’ll be dangerous.”

John laughed. “Where do I sign?”

Sherlock looked at him. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to come if you’re not sure, John. This could be really terrible.”

“So is losing your best friend to suicide right in front of you.” John was trying to be as blunt as possible. “You were willing to do that, and don’t think I’m not still pissed off at you, but are you willing to leave me behind again? You’re not that heartless. You’re not heartless at all.” 

Sherlock clearly wanted to argue, but John wasn’t going to listen. “Sherlock, I’m your friend, and I don’t want you to do this alone. So either I’m coming with you, or you’re going to have to knock me out and drug me enough to convince me this was a dream.” John deliberately turned his back on Sherlock and picked up his gun. 

“And I suppose the last one isn’t really an option.”

“Just like that wasn’t a question,” John confirmed. He carefully replaced his gun in his pocket before turning to his friend. “So, how are we getting out of here?”

*******************************  
Forty minutes, six car-changes, two new outfits and one crawl through a secret tunnel later (and what the hell that was doing there John didn’t want to know) they were sitting in a Chunnel train, about to leave. Once they were in Paris they would head for the airport and take a private plane to America. Sherlock had contacts there, and it would be a good place to lie low so John could learn the ins and outs of undercover work before they really went after Moriarty’s empire. 

It also made sense with John’s story. He’d argued Sherlock down from ‘dead’ to just ‘leaving the country, too many memories, I’ll write in a year’. That message was duly despatched to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade via Homeless Network, and John felt a little better. 

They were about to leave when Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He looked down at it and smirked. “Right on time.”

“What is it?”

“Who is it, though I suppose ‘what’ applies to the great iceman.” The phone buzzed twice more—two texts—and then started to ring. Sighing heavily, Sherlock picked up the phone and answered it. 

“HAVE YOU GONE BLOODY STARK RAVING MAD?!”

John went white with shock. “Mycroft?” he mouthed. Sherlock, who was now smiling openly, nodded. He held the phone away from his ear. 

“Not at all, brother, though I suppose if you had your way I’d be going deaf.” 

“Sherlock.” Mycroft sounded calmer now, though still very angry. “You cannot possibly convince me that this is a good idea.”

“Then I won’t bother trying. Good of you to help me conserve my breath.”

“Dr. Watson cannot go with you.”

“John is coming, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s tone was sharper now. “I cannot leave him here now, he knows too much.”

“How convenient. Not as though you’d planned that or anything.”

John tried to stifle a laugh, still angry with the older Holmes. “Maybe you shouldn’t have given your brother over to his enemy, and he’d be more willing to cooperate.”

There was a long silence. 

“He didn’t, John. That was part of the plan, to give Moriarty what he thought would be enough to destroy me,” Sherlock muttered. “All of that was done with my knowledge and consent.”

“Oh.” John considered that. “Sorry, Mycroft.”

“Considering I allowed you to believe that, as well as keeping up the guise of a bereaved sibling…I suppose I might be seen as owing you an apology.”

John grinned. “That’s the closest you’ll ever get to sorry, isn’t it?” 

“Very well, the two of you shall go.” Mycroft’s brisk tone answered John’s question, and he grinned at Sherlock. “I will update your requirements accordingly. Take care of my brother, Dr. Watson.”

“Of course I will!” John said indignantly. “He’s my friend!”

“I do not need looking after, Mycroft!” Sherlock added. 

“Well that’s not true.”

“You need looking after just as much—”

“I do not have time to listen to your childish arguments. I will contact you again at the time agreed. I certainly hope the two of you have enough sense to be in a secure space.”

John laughed. “Mycroft, at this moment we’re actually driving the Chunnel. How much more secure can we get?” 

“We’ll await your next call with bated breath, brother dear,” Sherlock chimed in. “Must go now, bye bye.” He pulled down his driver’s hat. 

“Please be careful. Both of you.” With that rather uncharacteristic statement, Mycroft hung up. 

John smiled. “Well, I suppose that’s the last of reception we’ll have for a while”. He meant ‘wow, we can’t talk to anyone except Mycroft from home for ages, and we’re going to do battle with a mysterious organization, isn’t that exciting and a bit scary, too?’

“Good, it’ll give us some peace and quiet,” was all Sherlock said. By now, though, John could guess what he meant. ‘It is, rather, but I’m glad I’m doing this with you.’ It was good, incredibly good to be going on more adventures with Sherlock, especially when this morning he thought they were done forever.

Then a thought struck him. “Hey, how did you survive that fall?”

Sherlock shifted in his chair and adjusted the speed of the train. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got all night.”

Sherlock shot him a quick glance. “Well, it started with a bouncy ball…”


	2. Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's first test in the matter of disguise brings them to Paris. It's only been about three months, but something seems...different about them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note on the timeline of this story--according to both the show and a timeline I found (the latter being a bit more specific as to dates), 'the Fall' happened in June 2011, so this chapter takes place in September 2011, and so forth.

Chapter II: Paris   
It had been three months since John had been in Europe. He looked like it’d been thirty years.

Sherlock had overdone the wig’s powder (which John knew was on purpose but couldn’t prove). The amount of lines on his face, too, was completely ridiculous. He looked like Sherlock’s—no, Matthew this week, MATTHEW—Matthew’s grandfather more so than his father.

“You had me late,” was ‘Matthew’s’ flippant reply. “You and Mum tried for ages—add a story for the character. You need that.”

John really wanted to argue, but Sherlock was right. He had learned a lot from Sherlock over the past three months, and disguise was at the top of the list. He had mastered the physical elements, but still struggled with the mental dimension of becoming another person. They needed to be in Europe badly—most of Moriarty’s network were operating here—but Sherlock had refused to come back until he knew for sure that John was ready. 

Sherlock had panicked at St. Bart’s, bloody panicked, and seemed determined not to let it happen again. John would be safe. The sniper wouldn’t find him. If John was going to come he had to fulfill those conditions. 

At least he got to be taller than Sherlock today, even if he’d needed to put on almost five inches and Sherlock to slouch and scrunch himself three inches shorter. It was bizarre to be looking down at Sherlock, but John had been firm. He didn’t want to be shorter than his son. 

They’d been in Paris two days now. John was still a bit loopy from jet lag, but firmly suggested that they take the Métro to the Eiffel Tower. Their characters were tourists, and so they were headed to the biggest tourist attraction John—no, he was Peter today—could think of. Sherlock had no objections, and they set off.

The train was a bit slow, and ‘Matt’ was tapping his knee every five seconds. “How many more stops, Da? Are we nearly there?” He was supposed to be eighteen, not eight, John grumbled to himself. 

Finally they were only two stops away. John glanced up to check. ‘Les Invalides’.

Sherlock snorted. “Why’ve they got a whole stop for invalids?”

John stiffened. He’d checked the guide before they left their hotel, and knew this area. “It’s for the ‘Hotel des Invalides’, it’s a whole area dedicated to the soldiers who died or were wounded. There’s museums and monuments for different wars.”

“There’s more than one? Why do they need so many? Oh, there was a war and people died, here’s some names. And some people didn’t die, they were just hurt, and here are some of their names! Really interesting. They should just consolidate them, save everyone a lot of walking.”

‘Matt’s’ tone was flippant, and even though John knew that Sherlock was acting, the words came out too easily. 

“Those people suffered and died for their country,” he replied quietly. “Or maybe their friends, or their families. They believed in something enough to put their lives on the line. Show some respect, alright Matt?” 

Sherlock flushed. “Sorry, Da.”

John leaned back, suddenly feeling sixty. 

************************************************  
The tower was wonderful and the flowers were in full bloom, and John managed to relax again. Sherlock was running everywhere, taking pictures from every conceivable angle. John had to physically restrain him from trying to climb onto the tower’s legs.

“Do you want to go up, then?” John asked him. 

Sherlock nodded instantly. 

John bought the tickets and they started waiting in line. John was still smarting from the soldier comment, but he couldn’t help noticing that Sherlock looked more and more unenthusiastic as the wait wore on.

“Only a few more minutes, I’m sure,” John soothed. 

Sherlock nodded abruptly, but his eyes kept darting around.

Puzzled, John watched his ‘son’ worriedly, but kept quiet. It was entirely possible that they were in danger, and he wanted to put Sherlock at ease. No matter how cross he was, he’d break the face of anyone who tried to hurt Sherlock. 

The ride to the top wasn’t too long, though they had to change lifts. John gazed down at Paris, stunned by how different the city looked from on high. Quite beautiful, although he still preferred London. 

John glanced over at Sherlock and was shocked to see that his eyes were tightly closed and his lips were trembling. 

“Matt?” John stepped closer to him. “Son, are you alright?” 

Sherlock shook his head. 

“Are you sick from the elevator?”

“No.”

John looked over the city as he put an arm around Sherlock. Was he homesick, perhaps? He must have stood on a thousand rooftops looking down at London…

Wait a minute. Not looking down, looking forward. Memorizing maps that showed a bird’s eye view, running the same routes often so he wouldn’t have to check. To look down.

Bloody hell. 

“Matt, why didn’t you remind me you were afraid of heights?”

Sherlock winced. “I thought I was over it.”

John squeezed his shoulder. “You get that from your Mum,” he said quietly. “But she’s never tried to climb the Eiffel Tower. That was brave of you.” He stood with him a moment longer. 

“Let’s go down again, alright? There’s loads more to see on the ground.” 

“I don’t want to spoil it for you,” Sherlock answered. He was gnawing on his lip. He really looked like the teenager he was supposed to be.

John chuckled in what he hoped was a fatherly way. “I’ve had my look, and there’s loads to see. Your Mum will probably be happy to see us back sooner than later, we’ve got a concert tonight.”

Sherlock looked him in the eye, more desperate than John had ever seen. 

“Come on lad,” he said, and steered Sherlock towards the elevators. 

**************************************************  
Once back on the ground, Sherlock regained his cheerfulness. He shrugged away from John and went ahead. John wanted to call after him, worried about losing him in the crowd, but stopped himself. He wasn’t actually Sherlock’s father. No need for such nonsense. 

It was lovely for a cold winter day, but John couldn’t relax. Sherlock said they were looking for someone: looking for trouble. So far, there’d been no sign of their quarry, nor any hint of what he was supposed to be looking for. Probably some sort of test; Sherlock was fond of those. 

Grumbling under his breath, he followed Sherlock. While he had looked at the maps, he didn’t have a great head for direction, and was taken aback when he saw where Sherlock stopped. 

Right next to the Seine were three large marquees, backed on stone. Sherlock was looking at them, mesmerized. John squinted at the sign.

The French Algerian War Memorial. 

Confused, John watched the names go by. So many dead, so many lost. One of his mates in the army once said that for every man dead at war, there were another three alive and broken. Probably not too many left from this war, but John knew how the ‘three’ must have felt. But he wasn’t broken, not anymore. 

“Find something interesting?” he asked Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked at him carefully. “I’m sorry, Da.” 

“What for?”

Sherlock looked down and shuffled his feet, every inch an awkward teenager. “I didn’t mean to make you feel weak.”

“When did you do that?” John tried to keep his tone light, but he knew exactly what Sherlock was referring to.

“When I said people were ‘just hurt’ in war, I made it sound like that didn’t matter. But I know that’s not right, I know that the war hurt you bad.” Sherlock’s Matt voice was rambling, but John had a sneaking suspicion that this wasn’t all acting.

“Sometimes people say things they don’t mean,” he replied. 

“You don’t.”

“Yes I do, son. I’ve said them to you, right before we came here.”

_You machine!_

“That didn’t count. I deserved it.” Sherlock clearly knew what he was talking about. 

“No you didn’t. You must know that.” They were practically alone right now, and there was no need for show, but John put his arm around Sherlock anyway. “You’re brave, of course you are. I always forget you’re afraid of heights, because you keep climbing anyways.” _You even fall, sometimes._

“I’m not about to let some stupid fear keep me from doing what I like,” Sherlock said. He looked up at John. “You don’t let anything stop you, not even the war.”

John smiled. “I can’t let that happen, now can I? I’ve got you to look after.”

“I can do that too.” Sherlock sounded stubborn, but Sherlock-stubborn, not Matt-stubborn. “Look after you, I mean.”

John thought of the man who must have seen everything about him in one glance at Bart’s and still wanted to move in with him, who cured limp, nightmares and boredom within 48 hours and who always made sure there were tea and slippers in the flat. 

“You already do,” he answered. 

****************************************************************  
After they walked back to the hotel John finally broached the subject he’d been hesitant about all day. “Is there anything in particular you wanted to see here, Matt?” he asked. Looking around the thrice-checked-for-bugs room, he clarified, “…or anyone?”

Sherlock, who was fully stretched out on the bed and looked pathetically relieved, smirked. 

“What?” John demanded. 

“Oh, we’re not here to find anyone in particular. This was a holiday…or a test, if you like.”

John stilled. “A test?”

“To see if you could keep in character all day.” Sherlock grinned openly. “You passed, congratulations.”

John scowled. “I thought the episode in New York was the test?”

“You proving that you could sort-of play Gordon Ramsay was the penultimate test. I had to make sure you could come up with a character on your own and stick with it.”

“So it was convincing?” 

“Very.”

“Brilliant.” John laid down on the other bed, legs feeling the strain of the long walk. “Where next, then, son of mine?”

“Brussels looks like trouble,” Sherlock replied. “We’ll head out tomorrow.” He sounded a bit sleepy now, but no one would deny the enthusiasm in his voice. “Let the Game begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a personal headcanon of mine that Sherlock is afraid of heights but knows how to master it mentally (kind of like Vizzini in the Princess Bride).   
> See you in Brussels!


	3. Brussels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are waffles, knives and odd statues.

He might have had to get up at half four to pull it off, but the result was worth it. John grinned up at his ‘father’ and received a hearty scowl under salt and pepper hair that was mostly salt. Sherlock looked at least sixty, which was saying something considering the detective still looked twelve in the wrong light. 

Standing near the palace, Sherlock was peering at his notebook. 

“Give it a rest!” John groaned. “The answer’s not going to just appear because you looked long enough!” His accent was getting much better. Several people had talked down to him today, mistaking him for American, and he was already getting tired of directing them to his maple leaf pin. 

“It has to be here!” Sherlock insisted in a gravelly voice. “This is the last bunch of code.” 

One of Sherlock’s Belgian informants had passed them the string of coded messages yesterday, detailing the movements of a drug ring running through Brussels out to France on one end and the Netherlands on the other. 

Drug rings were always interesting cases, but the leader of this ring sold more than drugs. Lars Bernard was born to a Dutch prostitute and a Lille-Europe shopkeeper, and in sixty years of life had sold more than both his parents combined, everything from women to human eyes to fake paintings. And yes, the clients knew they were faked. 

Every authority with half a brain knew that Bernard was involved up to his neck, but there was no way to touch him. A few knew that Bernard had weak spots, but the dangers involved made them hesitant to move. 

Only Sherlock, and presumably Mycroft, knew that Bernard was a perfectionist, a sportsman and was a major player in the Western Europe section of the ‘Web’ (that was John’s word, ‘network’ sounded dull). If one of his projects were to go wrong, and he were beaten by a worthy opponent, he would concede the game with good grace. At that moment, he might be amenable to giving up his contacts, putting a halt to several major trafficking rings. 

And sure enough, when Sherlock approached him through Mycroft, threatening to expose him, Bernard obliged by supplying Sherlock’s informant with the first clue to locating the drops for his group of Brusselois drug-runners. Each drop site would provide a scrap of incriminating information, a clue to the next spot and, patronizingly, some candy. 

John refused to eat it. 

Simple enough in theory, damn near impossible to do when their only lead to one of the man’s projects was a bunch of chicken-scratch code. 

The informant might get good information, but his handwriting was atrocious. This complicated what Sherlock was sure was a simple code. John couldn’t help him. Doctors were supposed to have bad handwriting, but he’d never seen anything like this. 

In the last twenty-four hours they had found three of the drop-points for information outlined in the code, each time collecting another piece of information about the boss. They were very close, but without the last piece—his address—Bernard was as far away as ever. 

“What does it say?” John asked. 

“That we need to look below the wee child,” Sherlock growled. “That is demonstrably unhelpful. We’ll have to start looking for midgets, I suppose.”

“Isn’t it dwarfs?”

“Whatever.”

John frowned. Brussels was somewhat familiar territory for him, having spent a weekend there with friends partway through his undergraduate degree. Thanks to the city’s famed abundance of bars, he didn’t remember much, but there was something about that description…

“Is the man we got this from Scottish?”

“No, he’s from Bruges.” Sherlock glanced at him. “Why?”

“Well, why would he say wee, then? Gran barely said that, and she was pure Scot. Could it mean something else?” 

“The only other definition of that word is weird to apply to a child, don’t you think?” 

John snapped his fingers. “Manneken Pis.”

“Little Man Pee?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

“It’s this really old fountain with a little peeing child in the city centre. People love it.”

Sherlock kept staring at him.

“Haven’t you noticed all the pictures of it? All the souvenir shops have them, Dad, come on.”

Another pause.

“Whyyyy?”

“I’m not sure,” John replied, grinning as Sherlock’s face drooped with confusion. “There’s lots of stories about who the kid is and why he’s important, but everyone really likes him.”

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. “If everyone likes this…Manneken Pis, then I’m assuming it’ll be crowded.”

John thought back fifteen years, but couldn’t remember much more than a blur of beer and fries. “I think so. I mean, it’s a tourist spot, right?”

“Well, we’d better go scope it out,” Sherlock said. He began to walk, his cane banging the ground every other step. 

It wasn’t a long walk to the statue as the crow flies, but John’s memories of Brussels were coming back more strongly, aided by cold fall air and the thrill of the chase. He remembered these streets, getting lost, getting way too many chips—no, fries—and having beer and waffles for breakfast with one of the girls from Neuroscience.

Sherlock didn’t chivy him as much as usual, partly because he was walking slowly, hampered by his old man image, and partly because John was, for the most part, still moving. Finally, though, John stopped and stared in surprise, and Sherlock hobbled back. 

“Jake, hurry up! We haven’t got all day!”

“Sorry,” John gestured to the small mall. “I just didn’t think this place would still be here!”

Sherlock peered at it through ridiculous glasses. “What’s in there?”

“It’s this awesome waffle place, best place in Brussels for them,” John answered. “I ate here when I was here with…Sonia.”

Sonia was Jake’s fiancée, and this was the city they met. Jake and his dad were doing a tour to plan a scavenger hunt for his proposal, which explained why two Canadians were looking for very specific places in Brussels. 

In reality, Sonia was the Neuroscience girl, now happily married to a very rich, kind man and the mother of six children. They still sent Christmas cards to each other. 

Sherlock’s eyes softened. “Why don’t we go there for supper? We’ll see if they’d be willing to do something for when Sonia comes over.”

John grinned, trying to look bashful. “Sounds great. But you’re right, we need to get going. One last place on the list!” 

****************************************************************  
“This is impossible.”

Sherlock’s tone matched John’s frustration.

An enormous crowd of tourists were jammed together in a tiny alley, trying to find the right angle to snap pictures of the fence-encased fountain. No one was fighting—yet—but John couldn’t help but notice the pickpockets poised for action. In a crowd this size, a riot might be useful to them.

“There’s no way this is the right place,” Sherlock muttered. “Nobody in their right mind would use this as a dropping place, it’s too crowded.”

John tried to be hopeful. “Maybe it’s only this bad during the day?” He knew that was wrong, though—Brussels nightlife was huge and went on for hours, especially in this neighbourhood. 

“Let’s come back later,” Sherlock decided. He started shuffling away, and John followed closely. “There’s plenty to see, we can have waffles for supper and then we can have an early night.”

“Sounds good, Dad.” So they would come back later, about three or four. That sounded like a good idea. 

************************************************

After John goaded Sherlock into a waffle eating contest—which Sherlock won, to his annoyance, saying “I guess you inherited your mother’s stomach,”—they went back to their hotel. There was no point waiting around the Manneken Pis for their things to be stolen or for someone to get suspicious, and Sherlock wanted to do something about his wig. He failed, which was excellent.

What was not excellent was walking back to the Manneken Pis at half three in the morning. There were still a fair amount of people around, but they weren’t all the friendly sort. John knew he could defend himself, and obviously Sherlock would be fine, fake hobble and all, but they didn’t look that way. They probably looked like easy pickings, a young man and an aging father (ha), clearly tourists. They even had a map for God’s sake, clutching it in the dark. 

Sherlock seemed to stumble, and John reached out to catch him without thinking. Sherlock leaned on his arm heavily.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

John nearly startled, but controlled himself as they turned a corner. 

“I’ve got a few tricks in this cane,” Sherlock continued, in his normal voice. “Shame you don’t limp anymore, I could have made you one when we got home.”

John stifled a laugh. Was this a test? “That was your fault,” he whispered in his Canadian accent. “Still, sorry.”

“Very Canadian of you.”

John did laugh that time. 

A few minutes later they were in front of Manneken Pis, mercifully alone. The fence wasn’t terribly high, but John knew he couldn’t get over it on his own. He turned to Sherlock and found him already bent, extending his hands, cane lying on the ground.

“Shut up, eh?” he growled. Sherlock boosted him without saying anything, but in the dim moonlight John caught his smirk.

Once Sherlock joined him on the other side they both looked up at the smiling, urinating child. It looked really bizarre in the moonlight, and John wondered briefly about their opponent’s sense of humour. 

“Where would it be?” John whispered. 

“It said below,” Sherlock whispered back, “so it must be below.” He stepped forward and ran his hand along the wall beneath the statue, just above the fountain. John watched him, a niggling feeling of doubt in his mind. Was this really it? This was a giant landmark in Brussels, something it was known for. Why would this be a drug drop? It was taking ‘hiding in plain sight’ a bit far. 

Something was wrong. 

He figured that out just as the knife whizzed past his shoulder.

“Look out!” he shouted. 

Sherlock pushed him to the ground as a second knife sailed through the bars, narrowly missing the detective. John was shaken from the fall, but he managed to glance up and look for their attackers. Four figures in casual street clothes, standing about twenty feet away. They looked like teenagers, but John felt a chill. Neither he nor Sherlock had heard them on the cobblestone street, and that didn’t make sense unless these kids were trained. 

Teenage assassins. Lovely.

One of them shouted something in Dutch, which John still didn’t know. Sherlock kept silent, his arm still in front of John. 

“Venez-ici!”

They couldn’t be serious. Come here? Yes, that was the intelligent thing to do. Climb over the fence and present a better target, that was clearly the optimal solution.  
To John’s horror, Sherlock stood up, motioning for John to do the same. “What do you want?” he asked, Canadian accent back in place.

“Both of you, climb over the fence, now!” the apparently trilingual assassin replied. 

John followed Sherlock’s lead, scrambling over the fence. They stood in front of the protection of the fence, weaponless. 

“Now what?” John snapped, now on his feet. 

A knife in his calf was his answer. 

John cried out, more in shock than pain, and crumpled to the ground. The knife was stuck in his leg, and he had to bend at an extremely awkward angle to keep from driving it in any further.

Sherlock stepped in front of him. “That was a mistake,” he said coldly. 

John tried to get up, leaning against the fence, but Sherlock waved his hand at him. “Stay down, I’ll handle these children.”

“And how will you do that?” the leader asked politely. 

Sherlock bent down and picked up his cane. “Like this.”

Shooting pains were going up and down John’s leg. He hadn’t been hurt like this in ages, and it was hard to concentrate. 

Even in that condition, he could tell that Sherlock was fantastic. 

In a matter of seconds the assassins were out cold on the ground, and Sherlock was kneeling next to him. He pulled the knife out with one swift movement, wrapping his scarf around his calf and tying it tightly before John had a chance to cry out. “Are you alright? Can you walk?”

Nodding, John tried once more to get up and failed. Sherlock caught him before he fell, helping him to rise with an arm around his waist. 

“Let’s go back to the hotel and have a look at that,” he said. “We’ll get a cab, they won’t ask questions if you’re quiet. We’ll be safe soon, don’t worry.”

John took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to keep from moaning. When he was sure he could talk, all that came out was, “I’m sorry I was wrong.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Sherlock insisted, dialling for a cab as he kept a firm hold on John. “It’s alright, we’ll be fine soon.”

****************************************

Twenty minutes later, John was in bed, leg bandaged expertly and with a mug of hot tea and a plate of biscuits. He felt unreasonably cold, even for October, and the sugar was to help with shock.

But was he really in shock? Yes, the knife was a surprise, but he knew he was in a dangerous situation. He hadn’t gone into shock in Afghanistan once while wounded, not even when he got shot in the shoulder. 

Sherlock was sitting on his bed, watching John intently.

“Can you stop staring at me please?” John asked, exhausted. “Take a photo or something.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Sherlock asked for the eighty-fifth time.

“I’m fine, honestly. It’s not going to be pleasant walking for a while, but I’ll keep up.”

Sherlock still looked worried. 

“You know this isn’t your fault, right? I got it wrong, remember?” 

“You didn’t get it wrong,” Sherlock corrected him. “Clearly that place is significant, otherwise the Assassin’s Minor League wouldn’t have found us. It was probably just a trap.”

That didn’t really help. Even if he’d gotten it right, John had still led them into a trap. 

“Anyways,” Sherlock said, and now there was a glint of humour in his eyes, “might want to leave that off the Sonia-trip.”

John chuckled. Then he sat bolt upright, nearly upsetting both tea and biscuit-plate. 

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked sharply.

“Sonia,” John said dazedly. 

“Yes…your fiancée, remember?”

“No, the Sonia from uni. We were here together, that trip. She was really upset about the Manneken Pis…”

“Not surprisingly, that statue borders on the pornographic.”

“It’s not supposed to be. And that’s not the point! The point is that Sonia was angry because the little girl statue didn’t get near as much attention.”

There was a pause. Sherlock’s eyes widened. 

“A little girl?” 

“Yes!” John nearly punched the air. “Jenny, I think. Sonia was feminist enough that it bothered her that the boy statue was super crowded and hardly anyone knew that the little girl even existed.”

Sherlock whipped out his mobile. In thirty seconds he had it. “She’s right near the Delirium Café! That’s not far from here.” He got up quickly, and then stopped. “Will you be alright by yourself?”

John smiled tolerantly. “Are you mad? I’m not bleeding or infected, I’ve got tea and biscuits and a nice bed for a cheap hotel. I’ll be fine, you go and find the last piece. Just be careful, alright?”

Sherlock hesitated. “You’ll call straight away if you need me?” 

“Scout’s honour,” John promised. “Go on!”

Sherlock went for the door, tucking his cane under his arm.

“Dad?” John asked.

Sherlock turned abruptly.

“Thanks for taking care of me.”

Sherlock smiled quickly. “I told you I could.” Then he was out the door.

Fighting a yawn, John drained his mug and sleepily ate one last biscuit before setting mug and plate on the nightstand. He switched out the light before easing himself down so he was reclining, propped up by Sherlock’s pillows.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, hoping that Sherlock would be back to wake him up soon with good news. Even with his leg hurt, he wanted to help arrest this bastard. 

He still felt sort of shocky though, and didn’t know why. What was so odd about this evening?

_Will you be all right by yourself?_

Ah, that was it. 

No one had ever asked John that, either in word or deed. He’d spent a lot of his life alone, the people around him from family to teachers to colleagues not bothering about him because he was so good, so quiet, he didn’t need supervision. No one bothered to ask if he needed care, companionship…attention of any kind. He learned not to ask for it. 

So it wasn’t the first time someone had taken care of him, nor even the first time someone fought for him. It was just the first time someone checked on him to see that he was alright, and was willing to stay with him if not.

Not a big deal, just new. 

With that sorted, John fell asleep.

*************************

He woke several hours later to “Look who’s here!”

John sat bolt upright in bed, cursing as he reached for his leg. Sherlock was grinning at him in the morning light. Next to him was a tall, balding man with a long face and square glasses, who was handcuffed and looked rather sheepish. 

“Good morning, Jake,” the man said. Sherlock gestured to the table and the man sat down in the far chai. “I apologize for my assistants, I’m afraid they got a bit carried away last night.”

John was trying to wake up, but this didn’t seem quite right. “You’re Lars Bernard?” The man looked more like a schoolteacher, for Christ’s sake, not the head of a black market Tesco. 

“You don’t look very formidable yourself, but your father assures me you had an instrumental part in bringing me down.” Bernard peered at him calmly.

“That’s right,” Sherlock confirmed. He sat across from Bernard. “Now, what we need to know is every single detail of your organization, as well as your contacts.”

“Well,” Bernard said slowly, “you certainly beat me, but my colleagues are another matter.”

“But that’s not right,” John replied, feeling more awake by the second. He sat up all the way. “If you had won this…challenge, your colleagues would have been safe. You lost, so shouldn’t they have consequences too?”

Sherlock flashed him a proud smile, and Bernard laughed. “He takes after his father, I see.”

“He’ll be a better man than me someday,” Sherlock corrected. “Now, about those names…”


	4. Florence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock try out a new city and a new disguise, tracking a rather peculiar assassin...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for excessive love for Florence and mentions of assassin sexting.

“I’m not playing your father again.”

“Neither am I. It took days to make that wig usable again!”

“What else could we do?”

“…What about brothers?”

“Sounds brilliant. I’ll be the older one.”

“No you won’t, I’ll be!”

“I’ve never been an older brother!”

“Neither have I!” 

“I won’t be a bad one.”

“I don’t care!”

“…”

“…”

“Twins, then?”

“Fine. But not identical!” 

***********************************************************************

Florence was beautiful, it had wonderful gelato, and it only had fourteen major churches. 

The last bit was important because one of them was hiding an assassin. 

Lars Bernard was extremely cooperative, and gave up nearly his entire network, as well as his position in Moriarty’s web. It made John wonder why Moriarty would have trusted the man at all, but he supposed even Bernard considered himself invincible, now that Moriarty was dead. 

They were supposed to head out straight away from Brussels, but Sherlock insisted they stay long enough to supervise the police and Interpol (“just two different shades of incompetence”) as they took down the supply chains. Coincidentally, it took three weeks, just enough time for John’s leg to heal.

John didn’t bother protesting. 

He still wore a simple set of bandages to keep the newly healed skin from being damaged, but he hid that under trousers and could walk without a limp by the time they stepped off the train in Florence. 

Before Bernard was locked away for good, he gave them one last ‘friendly’ tip.

“One of my friends—we don’t do business together, he’s not really my style—has a scheme going in Florence. There’s a hitman there, goes by the name of La Fiore, hiding in a church there right now. You might want to check that out; Fiore’s responsible for over a hundred assassinations.”

Sherlock considered that. John watched his face, wondering how much he’d tell Bernard.

“We weren’t planning to go any further than Belgium,” Sherlock said. 

“But you have to go to Florence!” Bernard protested. “It is the most beautiful place in Europe outside of Belgium. Take your son and go, even if only for vacation.”

“How about it Jake?” Sherlock asked. 

John shrugged. “Sounds good to me, Dad.” He frowned at Bernard. “Why are you giving up your friend’s job? He’s not part of your network.”

Bernard’s face went still. “He made a mistake when dealing with me, many years ago. It’s simply the right time for retribution.” His lips were barely moving as he spoke, and John caught a glimpse of why this man’s cold mind would have appealed to Moriarty.

“We could do with a little sun,” Sherlock mused. 

********************************************* 

Sherlock hadn’t lied to Bernard. Jake and Ed Stone had disappeared just before the Belgian border. Stuart and Stanley Smith (no, John had not picked the stupid names) took their place. They were now equipped with backpacks, maps and rosaries. They were twins in their late twenties, taking one last big trip together before going off to jobs across the world from each other in the spring. Why they were going to Florence in November rather than the spring was not discussed.

Bernard was wrong. La Fiore, or Fleur, or The Flower, or That Goddamn Bitch, was responsible for fifty assassinations in Italy. In the entirety of Europe, she was responsible for over a hundred. Interpol could only guess at how many she was behind worldwide. Working together, Sherlock and Mycroft had come up with a workable estimate—roughly a thousand in the last ten years. 

She was also Moriarty’s top foreign assassin correspondent. 

John couldn’t get his head around that. Apparently, assassins who knew each other would send messages to each other about jobs they were on, conditions in unstable countries, and occasionally sexts. People like La Fiore were responsible for creating safe ways of getting these messages to the right people, all while juggling their own assassination responsibilities. With that in place, assassins could roam the world safely, kill their targets with up to date information about political and weather conditions, and conduct long-distance love affairs.

Sherlock swore he wasn’t making it up. 

They walked to each church in Florence that was still open to the public, glancing through to look for La Fiore. So far they were unsuccessful, but John didn’t mind. He was still in awe of the wonderful city, and had yet to find anything wrong with it. He was also relieved that his leg had healed without the shadow of a limp.

The fact that it was raining buckets wasn’t great, but what could you do?

After three days of wandering through cold rain, though, even John’s enthusiasm started to dampen. There was no sign of La Fiore anywhere, not amongst the worshippers, the tourists…there wasn’t even a single blonde janitor. 

Sherlock called a halt halfway through day four, in the middle of a soaking thunderstorm. “Let’s go back to the hostel and regroup,” he shouted over the thunder. “There must be something we’re missing.”

Once they were back under shelter in their private room (‘Stanley’ was a hypochondriac, and Sherlock played the part so well they got a discount. Nothing could be done about the showers, however, and John was relieved it was raining so much), John ordered pizza. Of all the languages Sherlock had taught him, Italian was his favourite, and he enjoyed using it as often as he could, even with his atrocious accent. When the three pizzas arrived he opened the cheap bottle of prosecco and the two of them sat together on the floor, looking at the map. 

All the churches were marked in red, each with a corresponding section of observations in Sherlock’s commonplace book. There was no obvious visual pattern that John could make out. 

“She could be in one of the smaller churches,” he commented. He took a quick swig of prosecco.

“That’s not her style,” Sherlock answered. After taking a bite of pizza, he pointed to the file propped up next to the map. There was very little about the flowery assassin, only three words. Ruthless. Arrogant. Lustful.

“Are you sure we’re not dealing with the Woman?” John asked innocently. 

“Positive,” Sherlock said. “She would have texted.”

He didn’t mention that he knew that Irene Adler was supposed to be dead. John didn’t say that he knew she was alive.

“A smaller church would be safer, but she wants to be seen and heard no matter what. That’s how she operates.” Sherlock sipped his drink. “More to the point, the larger churches would be near WiFi zones. She still has a job to do.”

“Bernard didn’t seem to know that much about her,” John pointed out. “Maybe he was wrong, maybe she’s got a target somewhere in the city.”

Sherlock shook his head. “If she did the Boss would know.” He looked positively ill as he said this, and John smirked. Mycroft wasn’t a common name, and ‘boss’ was an innocent enough word, although it wasn’t as effective when Sherlock made faces like that. 

“Are we sure about that?” was all he said. 

“If he doesn’t, we’re certainly not going to find out in time. She’s an assassin-Instagram maniac.”

“I still can’t believe that’s real.”

“Oh, they’ve all got accounts. They post about stupid boring things that no one cares about, but it’s actually information about their latest kills.”

John shook his head. La Fiore’s Instagram was open on his phone. There were hundreds of images of flowers, some he’d never seen in his life, and lots of comments about how beautiful they were. It looked horrendous, and was, although not to the casual viewer. In the last week, she’d been tagged in a comment that was acoded threat to her life. Her account had been quiet since then.

He looked at the map again and hesitated. It seemed too obvious, and they’d already checked it out…

“What are you thinking?” 

John looked at Sherlock, still not used to him with red hair and a profusion of freckles. “She wouldn’t…be in the church with her name, would she?” 

Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore was a big, well-known church, one of John’s favourites thus far. There were rumours that La Fiore’s real name was Mary, so wouldn’t that fit? 

“It would make sense, but we’ve been through there already three times. If she’s in as much trouble as Bernard wanted her to be, she wouldn’t dare move, but there’s been no regulars at the church at all.”

“What about a disguise?”

“Again, not her style.”

“But if she’s looking to blend in…”

They kept talking, arguing about whether Fiore was desperate enough to shed her trademark look, even though that was what made her special, or whether she was simply hiding in plain sight. The pizzas disappeared slowly, as did the prosecco.

“She could be in disguise,” Sherlock finally conceded. “Fiore’s smart, and she might make an exception now the Spinner’s gone.”

John checked his watch, then the window. Five and clear. “Why don’t we go check it out now?” he suggested.

Sherlock shook his head. “Let’s go see some more of Florence. Eat some gelato, see some statues…we’ll go back when it’s dark.”

John shrugged. “Fine with me. But we’re going back to the good place.”

“Stu, we’ve had gelato from there five times.”

“Let’s make it six.”

“…then we have to go to the Piazzele Michelangelo.”

John looked at him. “Do you really think I can do that?” His leg was fine, honestly, but Sherlock had been keeping him from any strenuous exercise for weeks.

“You can,” Sherlock said confidently. “I’ll be with you in case anything goes wrong.”

“To take pictures if I fall down, and then help me up?”

“Exactly.”

************************************************

It was really cold in Florence at half midnight in November, but that didn’t stop Sherlock from circling the church five times, looking for any accomplices or enemies of La Fiore. They weren’t the only ones looking for her, after all.

“Can we please go in now?” John hissed. 

Sherlock looked about one last time before nodding. They went to the small side door, left open by the friendly janitor and guarded by the not-so friendly one, who thankfully had an unfaithful wife. With the proof of that in a small package (John really didn’t want to know what was in it), they were able to beard the dragon and get into the church. 

Even with only the security lights on, the church was still stunning. Beautiful art covered the walls and ceiling, stretching into the shadows. Even the pews looked lovely, reflecting the splendour even in the dark. 

There shouldn’t be anyone but the night staff in this place, but Sherlock grabbed John’s arm and pointed. John squinted, and could just make out the silhouette of a woman in one of the pews.

For the first time, John realized exactly what they were doing. They were waltzing up to one of the most prolific assassins in history, attacking her when she was already backed into a corner, with no reason why she should keep them alive. They were supposedly a couple of gangly Weasleyesque kids from Canada—why would she hesitate?

Sherlock squeezed John’s arm once, then let go. Turning his head to the side just a little, he watched Sherlock take a long, deceptively thin and wickedly painful stick from his backpack. John drew his gun, smiled, and the two of them stepped forward.

La Fiore appeared to be asleep, for she didn’t budge as they approached. They were being quiet, obviously, but shouldn’t assassins be trained to hear sneaky steps?

As they got closer, John could see long blonde hair falling over the back of the pew. It was her! He almost rushed forward, but he hadn’t come this far to be shot by anyone. Instead, he allowed Sherlock to take the lead, who stepped forward, stick raised, and with one swift movement pulled the woman’s hair. 

It came off in his hand.

**********************************

It wasn’t the most pleasant night, but John couldn’t help giggling when he remembered Sherlock’s face as he held the wig in his hand. The old Tibetan man in the pew grinned up at him, not at all upset about being caught. 

After a moment’s surprise, Sherlock raised his hand. Two women came in, Mycroft’s anti-assassin team, and they took charge of the prisoner. Sherlock and John stepped away, trying not to look at each other. 

As the wait drew on, the women trying to engage the fake assassin in conversation in several languages, John finally muttered, “I suppose that couldn’t all be a disguise?”

Sherlock shook his head, but John could see him fighting a grin. “Something’s off here,” he replied. “But I expect we’ll find out shortly.”

They actually found out ‘long-ly’, from one of Mycroft’s girls, a lanky redhead who could have passed for their triplet sister. “Himself wants to talk to you,” she informed them in a drawling Highland accent, holding out a phone. 

Sherlock took it, holding it down so John could hear. 

“Well done.”

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock demanded. “We didn’t find her.”

“You found out where she wasn’t. Bernard’s a fool, he knows plenty about his own operations but little about anyone else’s. La Fiore heard that he was after her three months ago, and she moved her game, leaving one of her lovers to play her Instagram-filler for her.”

_Her lover?_ John mouthed aghast. Wasn’t La Fiore thirty or so? 

_Word Three_ , Sherlock answered. 

John shook his head. There were apparently no limits with this woman. 

Mycroft sighed over the phone. “She switched with someone. This man is a drug smuggler from Tibet, he operates out of a monastery there.”

“Oh, the legwork required to go to Tibet!” Sherlock moaned. “How will you ever manage?”

“I’ll make you fly coach.”

“I hate you.”

“Both of you stop,” John sighed. “I suppose next stop Tibet?”

“Yes.” Mycroft was trying to sound calm and failing miserably. “You need to track this woman down. She’s a menace.”

“Is she clogging up your feed, brother dear?”

A long dial tone was his only answer.

Sherlock smiled at John. “Well, little brother? Shall we away to Tibet and track the femme fatale?”

“Only so I can watch you walk up to an assassin and call her ‘femme fatale’,” John answered.

“Excellent. Let’s get packed.” Sherlock turned around, somehow managing to swoosh without his coat. 

John started to follow, and then it clicked.

“I’m not your little brother!” 

There was a rather mad chase through Florence that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some of Sherlock (and John, he's there too...just in the background...shh...) check out ‘Many Happy Returns,’ up to ‘Incident at New Dehli’ (Anderson and his dumb titles)


	5. Reichenbach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In order to satisfy Mycroft, John and Sherlock take some 'vacation' time playing rather irritating(?) roles. The site of their vacation, however, might bring up some bad memories...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for fake slash (sorry, this one's not a Johnlock fic....at least not precisely) and death imagery, both BBC and original scenes. Also, thank you Arvi for your comments; I hadn't even thought about New Dehli and the ice cream. I may have to expand upon that on a later occasion, but herein lies a partial explanation.

(For Arvi, who asked for it): Incident At New Dehli Interlude

_John skulked around the corner, listening to Sherlock speak to the detective who had just taken all the credit for the case. Which was fine, of course, except he’d gotten something wrong._

_“There was no ice cream involved!” he hissed to Sherlock as they ran back to the plane. “They ate a whole bunch of desserts that day, but not ice cream!”_

_Sherlock, still with his stupid ginger hair (they both needed haircuts. And dye jobs), shook his head. “No one will notice. It was for the Boss’ benefit.”_

_“Oh yeah?”_

_Sherlock smiled quickly. “When I was six I figured out who had raided our fridge by that very means; he’d left it on the counter while he was stuffing his face. Mummy wasn’t pleased.”_

 

***************************************************

It was a beautiful, clear day in February, Valentine’s day, in fact, and all of Geneva was celebrating the day of love. Lovers were planning special dinners, days off, and divorces. Some were doing day trips together, away from the pressures of city life. 

One such couple was doing just that. They’d arrived in Geneva from Maine just the night before, celebrating their honeymoon in fine fashion in one of the nicer hotels. As they giggled to the concierge that morning, they wanted to rent a car and drive into the mountains; they were both expert climbers, and the falls were ‘so romantic’.

The concierge dealt with them quickly. Between the proliferation of pet names, the constant kissing and the double-entendre-laced talk, he wanted them out of the lobby as quickly as possible.

He wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that the car pulled over quite soon out of Geneva. He would have been shocked, however, that it was because the driver couldn’t stop laughing.

******************************************************************************

John wiped his eyes as best he could, still giggling. “What the hell did you call me?”

Sherlock was leaning back in his seat, trying to get his breath under control. “Which do you mean—lovely hedgehog or sweet munpty?”

“The last one—does that even mean anything?”

“I’ve absolutely no idea.”

John bent forward against the steering wheel and started laughing again. 

This was fun. Tibet had not been fun. La Fiore was easy enough to find; she didn’t even bother with a disguise in a monastery, and it took exactly three hours to expose her. 

Questioning her was more arduous, but they eventually got her to understand that yes, Moriarty was gone, and yes, she was going to go to prison for a very long time no matter how cooperative she was, but they might be able to get her into a prison without people knowing her name if she gave them some others. 

After that, still loopy with jet lag, they handed her off to Mycroft’s Asian squad (who were again, all women. John was all for equal opportunity employment, but he didn’t think Mycroft was). 

The problem with La Fiore was that she was replacing a drug smuggler. In order to have made that deal, they had to be on the same team, which they were. Conveniently, they were both part of the Web, which meant they had gotten two of Moriarty’s players. This was good. 

What was not good was the revelation that there was an Asian connection at all. Sherlock knew beforehand that Moriarty occasionally brought in players from Asia—like the Black Lotus, for example—but they were always specialists, performing tasks that couldn’t be done right by any of his European contacts.

At least, that was the theory. 

In actuality, Moriarty had a small but extremely effective presence in Asia, linked mostly through trafficking of various kinds. They answered directly to him and were considered an integral part of his operations. This was worrisome, because the whole Web had to be taken down to avoid a comeback, but good, because they were already in Asia and they could deal with the problem. Activity in Europe had come to a halt anyways; the Web had figured out that someone was hunting them down. 

It took three months for them to tidy things up. They’d crossed several borders, gone through seventeen different languages (at least Sherlock did) and solved several cold cases. 

Even though John was glad they were making steady progress, he was relieved when Mycroft called them back to Europe. Things were still quiet, but the Eastern Web was crumbling beautifully and they weren’t really needed anymore. Between Interpol and the yakuza, things would settle down again.

They were supposed to fly into Vienna from Maine (the long way around was still the safest bet), but Sherlock changed their tickets at the last moment, sending them to Geneva. 

“Do we need to go to the bank or something?” John asked.

Sherlock didn’t answer, and stayed very quiet for the rest of the flight. John tried to sleep, but Sherlock staring out the window into dark night worried him enough to keep him awake. 

Right at the end of the flight Sherlock did something very unexpected. He leaned against John and snuggled into him, holding his hand tightly as he did so. John stared at him, afraid to move. Clearly Sherlock was losing his mind. Drastic action might be necessary. 

“I’m so glad we’re almost there, darling.”

American accent, dripping with sentiment Sherlock would rather be caught dead than actually utter. Hands clinging tight, but still giving John personal space. 

Oh.

So they were playing a couple this time then. Right then.

John put his arm around Sherlock. “So am I, pet,” he replied, trying to make his voice rumble. He lowered it and leaned over him. “I can’t wait for the hotel room.”

Sherlock giggled (oh God, maybe he was really going mad). He placed a kiss on John’s hand, holding it for a second. John felt him slip something onto it, cool and smooth.

John entwined Sherlock’s fingers with his and admired his wedding ring. Simple gold with a thinner band of silver within, a small diamond in the centre. It was a nice ring, one that John could see purchasing for himself. 

Sherlock was wearing one too. His matched exactly, which didn’t quite fit. If Sherlock Holmes ever got married (and John really, really wanted to meet the person that would make Sherlock want to say I do) he would either wear a plain ring around a chain to keep it out of the way, or one so ostentatious that the tabloids would both cheer and debase for months. He certainly wouldn’t wear an identical ring to his wife…or husband.

The plane did eventually land and the plan was revealed. Mycroft was apparently concerned about John’s capacity to play roles other than Sherlock’s brother after the last three months. If they managed to play convincing husbands during this ‘vacation’ Big Brother would leave them be. Sherlock didn’t mention the consequences of getting it wrong; John understood. 

That didn’t mean they couldn’t have fun.

******************************************************************

John could not believe how sappy people thought honeymooners were.

Sherlock wouldn’t stop putting his arm around him, kissing him, calling him ‘darling’…the people at the hotel just ate it up. They thought their love story (camping outside a registry three days before the vote even went through to make sure they could get married first, after six years of dating begun at a production of RENT) was adorable, they loved their honeymoon plans (“to see gorgeous places with the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met”) and even gave them the nice honeymoon suite, with a ridiculously big tub and a bed that looked and felt embarrassing. 

At first John stayed quiet and let Sherlock do most of the talking. He figured that was what people expected. He was alright looking, but even he knew that Sherlock was an attractive man to a large part of the population (before he opened his mouth, that is), and therefore drew attention. People didn’t always notice John when they were together, and he was fine with that. Wouldn’t that be the same if they were married? 

But. 

But if they were married, would he really shut up? Would he really not talk to his husband, touch him, kiss him back? And besides, he wasn’t supposed to be himself, he was supposed to be Owen’s husband Archie, and Archie wouldn’t be so much like John. If Archie was just like John, then John wasn’t really acting, and Mycroft might pull him out, back to London, where he couldn’t protect Sherlock. 

And besides, if Mycroft was keeping a close eye, why not give him a show? 

So Archie flirted right back, leaned against his husband, returned his kisses. Archie talked loudly about how amazing Owen was in every possible way. Archie embarrassed everyone at the hotel with his double-entendre- heavy talk, to the point where they couldn’t really be considered double-entendres anymore. 

Archie, in short, was an obnoxious honeymooner, usually the kind that was murdered in crime shows. 

At least they were a happy couple. 

He and Sherlock hadn’t slept well that night, they were too busy laughing at each other. It didn’t really matter; after all, they were on vacation. They were supposed to be in Geneva for a few more days before heading out again, and John was honestly relieved. He wanted to get home soon, of course, and every day that Moriarty’s Web was still active was a bad day, but he was tired after three months of moving non-stop. A little break wouldn’t hurt.

“How far is it?” he asked, now they were in the car. 

“The route’s marked on the map, darling,” Sherlock muttered, leaning his seat back. “It’s about three hours, maybe three and a half if the roads are bad.” 

John looked at the map, tracing the blue line with his finger. It took them to the north-west, not terribly far, up to the mountains. 

Reichenbach Falls. 

It was Sherlock’s idea, hiking up a mountain in February to see the subject of the painting that started…the end. No, not the end. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was here. It was a beautiful painting; John hoped it did the falls justice. He supposed they'd find out soon. 

The drive was blissfully quiet, both of them tired of talking after non-stop lovey-dovey nonsense. John hadn’t driven in a long time (who needs a car when there’s running, cabs, the Tube and occasional rides in government vehicles?) and he found he actually missed it. The countryside was lovely and snowy, a winter like he hadn’t seen in years. 

So why did he just want this day to be over?

*********************************************************

After a climb that fully tested John’s hiking experience, they reached the Falls. No one else was around, it being the middle of February, after all, and they stood together in silence, watching the water fall over the cliffs, boiling in the pit below. The roar was horrendously loud, drumming in John’s ears, and it felt colder here than anywhere else on the mountain. 

Sherlock stood near the fence, looking down.

John stepped nearer. “You don’t have to stand so close.”

Sherlock looked sideways. “I just want to see for a minute.” His face was drawn, but he tried to smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t look longer than I can stand.”

John gritted his teeth and looked too. The rocks were clouded by foam, but they still looked wicked sharp. The water never stopped, eerie in the cold, and every so often there was a shriek mixed in with the thunder.

John shuddered. The shriek sounded human, full of rage and despair. Like someone’s life work was being destroyed in front of them…

A thought struck him. 

“Could it have happened here?”

Sherlock looked him straight in the eye. “It could have.”

John looked away. He wondered how it would have been; the two geniuses locked in battle on these cliffs, away from the city that was their normal battleground, far from their support systems, alone in this isolated hellscape. 

Would it have had the same outcome? Would he have been there to witness it? Or would he be waiting for Sherlock to come back on a plane that would never take off? 

Would the pit have been a shared grave for Sherlock and Moriarty? 

Without thinking about it, John took Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock squeezed it, and didn’t let go. Without discussing it, they turned around and left the thundering, screaming falls behind them. Without letting go of each other, they drove back to Geneva. 

*****************************************************************

The swirling, rushing, hateful water followed John into his dreams that night.

Horror-stricken, he watched as Sherlock stood on the roof of St. Bart’s—no, he was on the edge of the cliff of Reichenbach in summertime, still terribly isolated—no, he was in London, the tabloids howling for his blood. Moriarty was there too—no he wasn’t—yes he was, already dead—no he wasn’t dead, but he was about to be, grappling with Sherlock on the cliff side.

Either way, it didn’t matter. 

Whether he was standing across the street or just a few metres away on the trail, John was helpless. Sherlock fell with-Moriarty-without-Moriarty-with Moriarty-already-dead but it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter whether Moriarty was alive or dead because John knew this time Sherlock had no plan, that he was really dead and gone, and John was alone again, alone-oh-God-please-not again!

John woke with a violent shove, trying to push away the restraints that held him back from his friend’s side, from (maybe) jumping after him…

“Wake up! It’s alright!” 

John stopped fighting, just for a second. It was long enough to see that yes, he was awake, in a hotel in Geneva, in a ridiculous bed with the bedside lava lamp glowing. The restraints were simply Sherlock’s hands, trying to keep him still. 

Right, of course. Archie shouldn’t be screaming from nightmares at all. He was a bookshop owner, for God’s sake. What would he be having nightmares about—shoplifting? Certainly not his husband being murdered in front of his eyes in two different places by their worst enemy. 

Well, his fake husband, but still. 

He had to stay in character, or he’d be sent home. Away from Sherlock, where he couldn’t see him. Where he couldn’t protect him.

John gulped, trying to regain control of himself, to slow his pulse. Sherlock was still holding on tightly to his left wrist, right shoulder. He was taking John’s pulse, not very subtly. “What’s wrong?” 

“Weird nightmare,” John managed. This wasn’t the place to talk about, not the time, and anyways, that’s all it was. A weird nightmare, it wasn’t real, Sherlock was here, he wasn’t gone.

Sherlock stared at him intently, eyes nearly glowing in the lava light. John stared back, trying to convince himself of Sherlock’s safety. 

Sherlock solved the problem by gathering into his arms, holding him close, lying down again. John didn’t fight, what was the point? Sherlock was stronger than he was, always had been. 

“I’m here, John,” Sherlock whispered.

Smarter, too.

John buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder, shaking and sobbing violently. He had never broken down like this in his life, not when he found out that Afghanistan had taken his future from him, not even when Sherlock fell off St. Bart’s in front of his eyes. He wouldn’t have dared be so out of control. For some reason, he felt safer now. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t mind.

Sherlock didn’t speak again, didn’t move, just let John fall apart. 

It was John who finally pulled away. “Sorry, love,” he tried to smile. “It was just—”

“Drop it.” Sherlock put his hand on John’s face. “No one can hear us.”

“He’ll know,” John whispered. “He’ll know, somehow. He’ll take me away from you…”

“He won’t. I promise.” Sherlock’s eyes were glimmering with worry. “John, you’re safe.”

“Doesn’t matter if—if I’m safe,” John choked. He was trying to calm down, but his breathing was getting faster. _Slow down!_ He instructed himself. His lungs didn’t cooperate.

Sherlock pulled him close again. “Of course that matters,” he said sternly. “You’re important, John, extremely so. Don’t ever say that again.”

“I only matter if—if you’re safe,” John tried to explain. 

“Excuse me?”

“’Member when I told you…when I got murdered, I said please God let me live?” John didn’t wait for Sherlock to respond. “It was only survival instinct. There wasn’t anybody to come back for, nobody who would miss me.”

Sherlock said nothing.

“You saw it yourself,” John tried to help. “No close family, no relationship with my sister…I rented with a mad stranger, did you not think that was odd?”

“I met you, and then I met Mrs. Hudson, and Greg, and Molly, and even Mycroft…the first real friends I’ve had in ages. I was alone, and I owed you so much…those weren’t just words, Sherlock. You made me matter.”

Sherlock gripped him so tightly John’s shoulder protested. 

“I didn’t realize,” Sherlock whispered. “I thought—you were happy with other people. You had friends, you knew how to make new ones. I thought you would be alright.”

“Maybe I would have been,” John agreed. “But it would have been right back to the beginning, and…I didn’t want to go there.”

“I should never have made that plan in the first place.” 

John knew what he was talking about. The plan, that was put into place before Sherlock even knew about the snipers. The plan that would have taken him away from John anyways.

“You were trying to protect us,” he answered. “I’m not angry, at least not anymore, but Sherlock promise me…”

“Anything.”

“You can’t leave me again.” John looked up at him. “You can’t decide that I can live better without you than you without me. We’re partners in this, and if we die together, then so be it. I can think of worse things to die for.”

Sherlock looked down at him, indecision clouding his gaze.

“Please, Sherlock,” John whispered. “Don’t leave me. Please. I can’t be alone again.”

Sherlock sighed. “I promise.” He tucked John’s head under his chin. “But you can’t leave me either. I’d be lost without my blogger, after all.” He tried to laugh, but John caught the sob.

“Promise.” 

And John drifted back to sleep, arms still wound around Sherlock. He dreamed again, but this one was much better. This one was them, back in Baker Street, with Yarders and clients and Mycroft bringing them cases, and some dates with women but mostly quiet nights in front of crap telly and Chinese or Indian, and as the years went on new faces replaced the old but there was always adventure, always a purpose, until age slowed them down, but that would be okay. New faces, taught by them but bringing their own type of crazy to the game would take over, while he and Sherlock took off to the country. There’d be a little cottage, maybe by the sea, and he’d write and maybe start a garden like his grandad’s and Sherlock? For some reason, he thought there might be bees in the picture…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to say I have not been in person to Reichenbach (couldn't make it on the trip), hence the kind of vague details...but I thought this was an important place for them to sort things out. Cheers!


	6. Vienna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vienna is most famous for its music, but John and Sherlock are going to a concert for mystery, not Mozart.

A weekend in Vienna in early spring might be some people’s ideal. 

John was playing someone like that, but he wasn’t happy about it. 

Vienna was certainly lovely, but it seemed like the city shut down on the weekend. Their hotel wasn’t far from the city centre, but they’d been walking twenty minutes and had seen only half a dozen people. 

“Is everyone dead…Professor?” he asked under his breath.

Sherlock, sporting an impressively terrible mustache and an outrageous hat, snorted. “Clearly your first time. Don’t worry. We’ll be engulfed by the masses quite soon.”

John looked at the map for the tenth time. “We’re getting close to the centre at least.”

“And to the concert!”

John nodded attentively, trying to look enthusiastic. After all, ‘Thomas’ was thrilled about this opportunity. A Belgian music student, his thesis supervisor Professor Dean had kindly offered to take him to Vienna to explore the musical history sites and take in a few concerts. 

John was waiting for Sherlock to understand the joke with the names. He wasn’t holding out much hope. 

What they were actually doing was trying to discover how the pickpockets who frequented Mozart concerts were linked to the woman with the funny hat who did YouTube reviews of Viennese opera performances. Sherlock assured him that not only were they linked together, they were all linked in some way to the Network. 

John dearly, dearly wanted to call bollocks on that, but he couldn’t prove they weren’t, either. After all, Moriarty had been frighteningly insane, not to mention the top consulting criminal in Europe. Why wouldn’t he branch out if given the chance?

But YouTube?

Ah well. Sherlock was still the expert, and John didn’t hate Vienna. It was a lovely city, and the opera they’d been to the night before was surprisingly tolerable now that he understood German. It would have been more fun if they'd had better seats, but Thomas was a student, and he wasn’t going to let his prof pay for everything. He bought the tickets as a treat, and Professor Dean graciously accepted.

It didn’t hurt that damehelga89 (yes, that was her actual username. John was curious about the other 88 people who wanted that name) always sat in the cheap seats too. She wasn’t there that night, but Sherlock explained later that he knew that going in. As though that made any sense at all, John grumbled to himself. 

Now they were headed for a concert in the Mozarthaus to scope out the pickpockets. John enjoyed Mozart whenever Sherlock played it, so he knew he’d be able to focus. He was starting to worry they’d be attending the concert alone, though…

Until they crossed the road and ran into Europe.

Not just Europe; half the population of North America seemed to be here too, along with a smattering from every other continent. John felt a brief moment of panic as he stared down the busy street, the crowd broken only by statues. He was familiar with London’s bustle, but this…this was unbelievable. 

“Stay close, keep your eyes fixed forward and your hands on your pockets.”

John sighed. “I know…”

“If you do that we’ll be fine. The Mozarthaus is only a few blocks down.”

John shot a quick glance at Sherlock. “I know that too.”

“Then don’t be nervous. I’ve done this many times before.”

John didn’t bother arguing. He just started walking, Sherlock always a step in front of him, hands clamped firmly on his pockets. The crowd bustled around him, but he managed to avoid the most crushing places by keeping close to his ‘teacher’, who surged ahead confidently, never breaking stride even when they passed the enormous cathedral where many of the other tourists were headed.

Five minutes later they were inside the Mozarthaus, showing their tickets to a friendly man at a small card table. He showed them to the Sala Terrena. 

John hadn’t been expecting much, but the room took his breath away. The walls and ceilings were covered in designs of fruits and flowers, with a few cherubs poking around here and there and some lovely people along the walls. The designs were simple but elegant, and John suddenly felt excited about the concert.

He looked up to see Sherlock lost in thought as he gazed at the walls. John smiled and let him look his fill. Clearly if Sherlock had ever been here before it was still worth looking again. 

Finally 'Professor Dean' came back to himself. He shook his head slightly and directed John to their seats, nearly in the back. There were about twenty seats in the room, and though they were almost twenty minutes ahead of time it still felt odd.

He shouldn’t have worried. Every seat was taken in the next ten minutes, and John found himself behind two very tall people. He didn’t bother asking to switch with Sherlock; there wasn’t much point. It was a concert, and he could still hear. Besides, it was the people he was meant to be watching.

At last the performers came on stage—John knew from the program that it was a string quartet, though he could only see two violin bows waving in the air. There was a moment of tuning, silence, and then the music began.

********************************

A few minuets later, and John had nearly forgotten the case. 

The music was lovely, as good as Sherlock when he actually tried. The acoustics were interesting, and people were actually behaving themselves and not taking pictures. 

He was almost relaxed, but he did have the presence of mind to keep his eyes moving around the room. Everyone seemed to be of the harmless, elderly persuasion. That didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous, but John knew they could handle any problems. It was actually kind of nice to sit back and listen to music and let your eyes follow the patterns on the walls…

John frowned. There were patterns on the walls, all right, but there was also a pattern on the jacket of the woman in front of him. It was a jacket checked with red and blue, but there was something wrong in the middle…the pattern was off. There were too many blues together in one place, too many reds in another. 

Eyebrows shooting up as he made the connection, John began to translate, dearly hoping that this was not another UMQRA situation. 

No, it wasn’t. T…O…N..I…G…H…T.

John stifled a cry of triumph just in time. With half his mind still on the concert, he looked around the room, searching out other patterns. He found it in the scarf of a young man three rows up, and was shocked to see the exact same word spelled out along the fringe, still in red and blue. 

He risked a quick glance at Sherlock and caught his smirk of triumph. He didn’t move, though, so John relaxed back against the chair and listened to the music. 

***************************

They wove out of the crowd as fast as they could, blending into the falling shadows as they all but ran back to the hotel. 

“Morse code in the clothes!” John said when they were finally locked in.

“Yes.” Sherlock had discarded the silly hat, but the mustache was still in place. “Brilliant way of communication; most people would just think it was a bad knitting job.”

“So that lot are in on it, but what have they got to do with the YouTube channel?” John asked.

Sherlock sat down. “Think, Thomas.”

John sat too. He thought for a moment.

“No, out loud.” Sherlock’s voice was stern. 

John rolled his eyes. “As you wish, Professor…well, it definitely wasn’t an accident that two people had the same code in their clothes.”

“Three.”

“What?”

“There was a third near the front, but you couldn’t see her. Carry on.”

“Right. So…no coincidence, it was planned. I suppose it’s a sort of signal to the pickpockets to strike a particular group…maybe because they’re richer or something?”

“And how would they know that?”

“Same hotels? Similar restaurants? That leaves too much to chance though.” John paused. “Maybe it has to do with a schedule? No, no, if it did they wouldn’t have to be reminded.”

Sherlock leaned forward. “We’re looking at this the wrong way.”

“We?”

“Yes, yes, I’d reasoned that far by the time the concert was over.” Sherlock waved his hand impatiently. “And you’re correct, only the most idiotic of pickpockets would need reminders of a simple schedule. But say they do need a signal because they don’t actually know the schedule.”

John saw it all of a sudden, a clear path between a strange young girl obsessed with opera, a beautiful concert hall and the crush of people in the centre of an old city.

“It’s damehelga89!” he blurted out. “She’s setting the schedule through her videos…making it random enough to keep a pattern away from the police.”

Sherlock nodded, eyes bright with excitement. “And the people who watch the videos send the signals. The pickpockets may not even know how it’s being set.”

“They musn’t, otherwise why bother with the middlemen?” John agreed.

“But why have the middlemen?” Sherlock repeated the question. “Why are they important?”

John waited.

“That was a question, Thomas.”

“Oh. I thought you knew the answer. You were making the face.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I maintain that there is no face. And besides, while I may know the answer I think you know too. Or you will in a moment. I have faith in you.” John was slightly embarrassed to see that he meant it. 

John concentrated. Why bring more people into a scheme than necessary? Obviously they wouldn’t, so they must be necessary…

John saw Sherlock see the minute he understood, saw his friend’s lips curve into a smile. 

“The middlemen are all tourists, aren’t they?”

Sherlock grinned. “Exactly. They’re coming from all over the EU, judging by their shoelaces.”

John didn’t even blink.

“So they watch these videos…” Sherlock prompted.

“And they know where to go for events, or concerts,” John finished. “And they’re careful enough to not leave too many traces. They probably pay in cash, travel by foot when they can, that sort of thing.”

“Lack of paper trail, any trail beyond a few easily disposed-of pieces of clothing and one small YouTube channel. They pick up the valuables from the thieves, take them home in their suitcases and sell them in another country.” Sherlock pressed his fingers together. “Elegant.”

“This can’t be all that lucrative though, can it?” 

“That may not be the point.” Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe they’re just bored.”

John shook his head. “Well, where do we start?”

“I start by contacting…the Dean… and talking to him about looking at these people’s passports. They’re likely using legitimate documentation if it’s more about the intellectual challenge, and it would make it safer. You start by finding out how they’re communicating in the videos.”

John opened his laptop. “Alright. See you soon?”

“Text me when you find something.” Sherlock left the room, cramming his hat firmly over his curls as he did so. 

John sat down at the desk and started listening to opera reviews. He was discouraged to find, several videos later, that there was absolutely nothing in the videos that was even remotely suspicious. Still, the first video lined up with the first pick-pocketing incident Sherlock had flagged as part of the pattern, and the others were within a week of each of the following ones. He was missing something.

Keep looking then. What else was part of a video? Adverts changed, ‘like’ numbers changed…

Then it hit him. Obvious.

It took him ten minutes to confirm his theory. He grabbed his phone. 

Thomas to Professor: It’s the comment section. 

Professor to Thomas: Explain.

Thomas to Professor: The coded responses are in long strings of comment replies that start with racist comments or with the ‘Bob’ meme.

Professor to Thomas: Good. 

Thomas to Professor: You don’t know what Bob is, do you?

Professor to Thomas: You know. That’s sufficient. The Dean wants us to report to Interpol with the names. Track the YouTube usernames in those comment strings, there may be more review channels connected to this.

Thomas to Professor: Got it. Suppose we’re moving on then?

Professor to Thomas: Yes. Next time you can be the Professor, I think. I’ll set you up as Professor Johnson. 

Thomas to Professor: Creative, that. What about you?

Professor to Thomas: The Dean thinks it might be time for a more thorough disguise. What do you think of the name Angelina?

(5 minutes of silence).

Thomas to Professor: Haven’t read the books my arse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John definitely knows and loves Harry Potter, and Sherlock definitely pretends he doesn't. Hope you enjoyed it!


	7. Berlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock struts his stuff as a girl, currywurst is had, and John shows off exactly how much he's learned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currywurst is the literal best thing ever. Happy reading!

People stared in curiosity at the tall, elegant girl who managed to pull off her thrift-store clothes, walking along serenely beside a doddering old man with good clothes and no idea how to wear them. Some stared with disapproval mixed in; what on earth was she doing with him? The frowns deepened when some braver (read: ruder) people listened to their conversation; the girl was his student, was she? On a special trip with her professor? How...nice.

The girl was hardly concerned with the whispers of strangers, though she was getting irritated with her professor behind closed doors. 

“You are going to get hoarse from saying ‘I told you so.’”

“I did tell you so!” John groaned, sinking into a chair. “Everyone is staring at us.”

“I did hope for better,” Sherlock sniffed, stretching luxuriously. Angelina might be a poor college student, but she chose comfortable clothing, which was smart considering that Sherlock had to slump half a foot to play a convincing woman. “Why on earth do they care?”

“They think you’re an innocent child being preyed on by a pervert!” 

“Angelina is twenty-three and can take care of herself.”

“Angelina doesn’t look it.” 

Sherlock waved his hand. “Irrelevant. We need to focus here.”

John raised his eyebrows. “On what, exactly? There haven’t been any murders since we got here!” 

The deaths that had drawn them to Berlin were hardly worth a four on Sherlock’s Scale of Interest (John _hated_ that scale); two stabbings and one shooting. A few suspects in each case, a few leads...they should be open and shut, easily left to the locals.

Except. Except the victims weren’t really a teacher, a janitor and a museum guide. They were international agents in deep cover, moved to Berlin after dangerous assignments had threatened their wellbeing. 

One of them used to be Mycroft’s. 

Ellen Ridgeway was Victim Three, and was the reason they’d been alerted. After a glorious career involving several foiled coups she had retired, asking for deep cover to protect her daughter from the death threats that Mycroft still received. Ellen and her daughter Margot had been living in Berlin ever since. It was Margot who had found her mother’s body.

_Poor kid_ , John thought. Margot was only eight, and her father (who was a decent man if a bit dim), was now being held for her mother’s murder. 

“Professor, if you could concentrate that would be lovely!” Sherlock snapped. 

John glared at her—him—bloody hell. “What is there to concentrate on? We both know that we have nothing to go on.”

“We can’t just sit here,” Sherlock fumed. 

“Yes we can,” John said firmly. “You know we have to wait for the Dean to send us more information on all three of the former spies. We need to know why they were killed now—it’s been years since they were active.”

“We could go to the crime scenes—”

“In a city where we’re not known? Where we don’t have any connections—at least not ones that we can use openly? You’re a history student from Bruges, _Angelina_. They have no reason to let you or I in, and if we do go poking about we’re going to tip our hand.”

Sherlock groaned, but he didn’t protest. 

If Mycroft’s suspicions were correct—and they were waiting on a 'fax' from Salzburg to be sure—these were agents who had tangled with Moriarty in the past, knowingly or not. With the Web starting to fall apart, the remaining agents were searching frantically for the people taking it down. These three were the right place to start. 

John felt desperately guilty about that, but what could they do? They couldn’t very well announce that actually, it was the supposedly-dead Sherlock Holmes and inactive Dr. Watson from London buggering everything up, and would they mind not killing innocent people? Their only recourse right now was to figure out the next victim and catch the killer in the act. Mycroft had assured them that the remaining agents in Berlin were being monitored, whether they were targets or not, but they had to move fast. 

But they couldn’t bloody do anything. 

“Come on, Angelina,” John said, standing abruptly. 

“Where are we going? I thought we were going to wait for the fax.”

“I want to keep moving. Besides, there’s a currywurst truck not far from here.” 

Sherlock was out of his/her/whatever-the-bloody-hell chair in an instant. 

************

John still couldn’t decide whether currywurst was the best or worst thing they’d discovered in their travels. 

It was lovely, because it was delicious and everywhere and cheap, and Sherlock liked it (he claimed that _Angelina_ liked it because it was good food for university students- see cheap- but John wasn’t fooled). It was awful because it was delicious and everywhere and cheap and Sherlock liked it and it was horrible for you, it was bloody sausage covered in curry and then spiced ketchup and it was _incredible_. 

John found he didn’t much care about that, certainly when they were eating it. Angelina was currently tucking into two portions with a roll, while he was finishing his third. Absent-mindedly, he wondered whether there were any good recipes online, they had to make this when they got home. 

That brought him up short. Home. When on earth were they going to be there again? 

When they’d first left London last June John hadn’t let himself think about returning. It would certainly be months before they came back, maybe even years; best not to think about coming back as they were leaving. Now that things were maybe coming to a close…but were they really? Sherlock still didn’t know everything Mycroft did (a necessary precaution in case they were compromised), but he thought they were getting close. Still, the La Fiore affair and the subsequent Asia adventure showed that they couldn’t get too complacent. 

To his shock, John realized he missed home. He was enjoying himself; just the two of them, travelling to amazing places, solving crimes… he was keeping careful notes in case he could ever write about their adventures again, but he missed blogging a lot. He missed their flat, and their friends, and known streets and the parks and…well, everything. John knew that it might be ages before he saw London again, and he was coping quite well, but he wouldn’t mind heading home sooner rather than later. 

He looked up to ask Angelina whether she wanted to see some more monuments, and saw a tall, skinny woman walk by. Her face was rather unremarkable…other than the fact that he’d seen her face staring up at him from Sherlock’s computer screen that morning. Her name was Bertha Miller, except it was actually Bonnie Clyde, and she was one of the agents who could possibly die. 

John pushed his plate away. “Come on Angelina, we’re going to be late.”

Sherlock got up, purse catching on the corner of the table. He shot John a confused look, but John just unhooked the purse and took Angelina’s arm, saying quietly, “come on, the statues won’t photograph themselves.” He gestured impatiently, managing to briefly indicate Bonnie. Sherlock wrenched his arm away and nodded. “Yes Professor.” 

They followed her carefully, staying as far away as they could. John didn't know why he was so sure Bonnie was in danger. There were five other agents in Berlin that were potentially in danger, there were supposed to be other secret service agents looking after her, and there were already three bodies. Any more and Interpol would have to get involved…surely the Web wouldn’t hurt anyone else so soon? 

Maybe it was the fact that Bonnie was the first name on the preliminary list after Ellen. Maybe it was the fact that Bonnie also had children, two teenage boys and a little girl. Maybe it was instinct, developed in the months spent in disguise himself. 

Whatever it was, John was going to follow this woman and make sure she got home to her kids.

They were approaching a bridge above an S-Bahn station when John felt a shudder go down his spine. Surprised, he scanned the crowd again, searching for the source of his unease. 

Oh.

It was a tall man, bald with a bushy beard, a tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve. He was striding purposefully towards Bonnie.

It was the same bald man who’d been doing repairs at 221b the day Sherlock fell. Paolo Mandiña, a Spanish assassin with a record for nasty kills, especially kids. 

John didn’t run—that wouldn’t help. He gritted his teeth, looked around quickly, and stepped directly in front of a bicycle. 

The crash knocked the wind out of him, but he fell carefully, if not gracefully, avoiding smacking his head. Sherlock screamed—and good Lord, someone with that deep a voice should not be able to sound so shrill. John craned his neck to see Bonnie turn, see Paolo, and immediately turn and walk towards the accident. The assassin watched from the side of the road as the young cyclist bent over John, apologizing profusely. 

“Ich bin Okay," John muttered feebly. 

Angelina knelt next to him. “Professeur, comment vas-tu?” She was wringing her hands, eyes wide and frightened. John reached out a hand and patted her arm. “It’s all right, ma belle,” he replied. 

Bonnie was near them now. “Can I help in any way? Are you alright, Herr Professor?” 

John looked up at her carefully, praying he’d memorized the CIA code correctly. “I’m fine, Frau, don’t worry about me. _It’s just a scratch._ ” 

_(Translation: there’s someone dangerous nearby)._

To her credit, Bonnie didn’t look around. “Are you sure that I can’t be of help?” 

“Angelina’s got me.” To his utter relief, John spotted Anthea was weaving through the crowd. “You can go home, I will be fine.” _And so will you_ , he thought, watching Anthea approach Paolo. The two went off together. John had a feeling that only one would be coming back. _Thank God Mycroft sends faxes quickly_. 

Bonnie gave them the look, the one everyone had been giving them. John was struck by sudden inspiration. 

“Angelina’s a very capable girl,” he said proudly, patting Sherlock’s arm again as he sat up straight. He lowered his voice a touch. “Reminds me of my daughter…” he let his eyes mist over, letting the tears tell the story of a lonely old man and a girl who reminded him of a beloved child.

Bonnie blushed, and the closest people in the crowd looked a little uncomfortable. There, see, don’t judge from appearances, John thought vindictively. He accepted Angelina’s help to his feet and nodded to Bonnie. Then he and Sherlock turned around and walked back to their hotel.

************************

They were barely in the door before Sherlock started laughing. “You were magnificent, Professor!” 

“Really?” John knew they’d succeeded in saving a life, but his heart still grew warm at Sherlock’s praise.

“Really. Couldn’t have done it better myself, and that last part…” Sherlock clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re more than just a conductor of light now, aren’t you?!” 

John was about to start blushing when the sound of typing drew his attention through the door. Shaking his head, he let Anthea in, her head still bent over her phone. 

”You two couldn’t have waited for me?”

“We wanted currywurst.” Sherlock was back to his usual self. “And it was a good thing we did.”

“Once we knew it was Mandiña it was obvious that he would finish the job quickly,” Anthea replied calmly. “I came as fast as I could. He never took any chances.” The past tense was chilling.

“He was one of our assassins, wasn’t he?” John asked.

“Your landlady’s.”

John clenched his fists; he noticed Sherlock doing the same. 

“He’s been taken care of,” Anthea said. “No longer your concern.” 

John decided Anthea had been spending far too much time with Mycroft—he’d only ever heard Sherlock mimic him so well. 

“You two need to leave tomorrow,” Anthea continued. “Your friend Lestrade’s assassin is in Italy on a similar mission; apparently they’ve decided their targets can shift, now they’re sure you’re dead.” 

“How inconvenient,” Sherlock sighed. “There were monuments I wanted to see.”

“Come back for a holiday once you’re finished taking down this international crime network that affects everyone’s lives, not just your own.”

John stepped between the two. “We’ll go tomorrow.” He glanced at Sherlock. “The faster we can keep our friends safe, the better. I’ve been worried about them.” He didn’t mention that Sherlock had been too. 

Sherlock looked back at him, then dropped his gaze. “Well, one down, two to go. We’re a third of the way home.” 

John grinned, but cursed the irony. Of course now that he was finally used to this life, it was drawing to a close. 

Ah well, they won either way. 

Currywurst was good, but give him a strong cuppa any day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandiña's name is taken from the list Mycroft gives John of their assassin neighbours in 'The Reichenbach Fall'. He isn't one of the ones who gets hit by a vehicle, and I really wanted them to get Mrs. Hudson's assassin first.


	8. Milan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were supposed to go hunting in Milan, but something's a bit...off...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the shortness of this chapter, I had some trouble writing this particular dynamic (you may see why) and also the next three chapters are quite long. Happy reading!

John had never liked Mrs. Lestrade--Greg was a decent bloke, and he deserved far better than the philandering harpy he'd fallen in love with. The divorce hadn't come a moment too soon. 

Apparently, the assassins had never gotten the memo, and they considered the former Mrs. Lestrade a person of importance to both Greg and Sherlock. Which meant that Greg's assassin followed her when she went on holiday ( _without her ex-husband, you blind idiots_ ). Which meant that Ludmila was now in Milan with Cherry. Which meant that they had to get to Milan. From Berlin. 

John really didn't like Mrs. Lestrade. 

The train ride was interminable. John glared out the window at the rain, hands pressed against his knees. He’d never been good at sleeping on trains, and that hadn’t changed with all their gallivanting. Twelve hours into this damn ride, and he still couldn’t sleep, eyes aching with exhaustion. 

“Cup of tea, Mr. Wilson?” 

John glanced over to see Sherlock in a ridiculous cheap suit, balancing a Styrofoam© cup of tea in one hand and a strange looking pillow in the other. 

“Chamomile?” he asked hopefully. 

Sherlock nodded eagerly, a bizzare blonde fringe hanging over his eyes. "Brought it specially." 

John took the cup and drank gratefully. After draining it entirely he passed it back to Sherlock, who disposed of it carefully. He took the pillow from Sherlock and looked at it critically. “Why is this going to help?”

“I thought it might make you more comfortable,” Sherlock replied. “You haven’t slept.” 

“I never do on trains,” John muttered, trying to wind the pillow around his neck without strangling himself. Sherlock leaned over and did it for him. “Why didn’t we fly again?” 

“We…couldn’t get tickets on a plane.”

“Since when can we not get tickets on a plane?” 

“Since the Greek elections distracted our…travel agent.”

John couldn’t help laughing at that. “Well, at least we’ve got a plan figured out. Now I just have to hope I’m awake enough to see it through.”

Sherlock scoffed and looked through his pockets. “Have a little more faith in me, Mr. Wilson.” He produced an mp3 player and some headphones, offering both to John. 

John put the headphones in slowly. “What am I listening to?”

“Holst; the Venus movement on repeat.” 

John’s eyebrows shot up. “How did you—”

“I’ve been with you for a while,” Sherlock replied with a grin that was clearly intended to be shy. “I know what works.”

John shook his head and leaned back. “You’re an interesting P.A., Hilton. Wake me when we get to Milan.” He closed his eyes before Sherlock could reply, and put in his headphones. Within minutes, he was asleep. 

********************************

John woke to Sherlock’s unnaturally gentle nudging precisely six hours later, feeling wonderfully refreshed and comfy. At least, until Sherlock’s face came into focus.

“What’s wrong?” 

“Seems our appointment moved on.”

John got to his feet so fast his head spun. Tearing the pillow off and removing the headphones, he threw them on the seat and rushed out of the car. Sherlock followed, bags in hand.

“How do we know?” John asked finally, anger under control.

“Travel agent.”

John swore. “I knew we should have gone on the plane.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it now.” Sherlock put the bags down and grabbed John’s arm. “He forwarded us directions to some lovely places in Venice. Shall we go there instead?” 

John’s mind raced. Ludmila should have had no reason to move on to Venice, but then again there was no reason for her to have followed the former Mrs. Lestrade in the first place. Something else was going on here, but there was no time to stop. Whatever she (or possibly they) had planned, it would stop once they caught her. 

“Get tickets to Venice,” he ordered. “We’ll catch the first train we can, I don’t care what class.”

Sherlock nodded, but for the first time in a while he looked uncertain. John caught the look and moved back, out of the crowd. “What is it?”

“Can we…in Venice…I know this was my idea…”

John realized where he was going and almost laughed aloud. “I can be your P.A. when we get there,” he answered. “It’s a bit odd, giving you orders. Fun, but…”

“Not quite right.”

“Exactly.” John saw the glint in Sherlock’s eyes. “No, that doesn’t mean the other way around is good either.” 

Sherlock pouted, but his eyes were twinkling. “I’ll get the tickets, boss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I do think John is perfectly capable of bossing Sherlock around, I don't think either of them would be content playing those particular roles in public, at least exclusively. Milan is an awesome city, by the way; apologies for not doing it justice, it's well worth a visit. (Blame travelagent!Mycroft; he had his reasons). Next stop: Venice!


	9. Venice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time's ticking, assassins are wandering, and Venice might be sinking. Now if only they could find their way to the hotel...

Damn assassins.

Damn trains.

Damn sun.

Damn canals.

John officially hated Venice. 

It was hot, his coat was far too heavy but he couldn’t take it off because they had nowhere to put it and he had NO SODDING IDEA WHERE THEY WERE. 

Italy in June was horrible, he thought grumpily, pulling vainly at his collar. The air was so moist he couldn’t believe it wasn’t raining, it was only eleven in the morning and it was easily about 35 degrees, and there were people everywhere…and most of them seemed as lost, hot and tired as he was. 

Sherlock didn’t look tired at all. Dressed in a light designer suit he moved effortlessly through the crowd. John knew he was lost too, but Sherlock didn’t let it show with frantic looks and slow steps the way the others were doing.

“Keep up, Hilton!” he called. (No sense wasting the passports, all they’d had to do was switch wigs). “I’m sure we’ll find it!” 

“Yes, sir,” John replied, gasping as another wave of hot air passed over him. His mind was swirling a bit; hadn’t they already seen that souvenir cart? No, right, they hadn’t quite, it was just identical to the other fifty seven they’d passed in the last half an hour. “Shall we look at the map again?”

By that he meant Mycroft’s email, received just as the train pulled into the station. Packed with unusual emotion, the message showed that he’d made up for the time lost in their train journey. Apparently Greece could sort itself out now; they had a bigger problem to deal with now. 

That bigger problem was simple. The Web had already realized they were losing before Mandiña’s death two days ago. Not just members, but respect. After all, their leader had been dead for just about a year now and in that time most of their members had been jailed or killed, even the ‘secret’ Asia chapter. They were a laughing stock in the criminal communities of the world, and various groups were beginning to make moves on their territory. 

They had two options. Give up, or make such a statement they’d be guaranteed respect and loyalty from whoever they chose. 

Moriarty may have been a bastard, but he’d picked (mostly) dedicated employees. 

The message was clear. They were going to sink Venice. 

At the moment, John wasn’t entirely too fussed about that, but he knew that if he wasn’t so hot and tired, and if it wasn’t quite so crowded that it would be a lovely place to wander about. And of course, they weren’t exactly going to usher all the people off the island before sending it into the sea. No, they had to find the terrorists, and quickly. Mycroft wasn’t sure how much time they had, but Ludmila leaving Milan was a bad sign. Apparently, the assassin loved Venice and had protested against sinking it, and she had come to argue for the island, forsaking her mission to kill Greg Lestrade. If need be, she was willing to die on it in protest.

Again, John wasn’t strictly against this idea. 

But there were principles at stake here, not to mention innocent lives, and if they caught her they could stop the sinking of Venice and save their friend. 

It sounded rather poetic, really. Now if they could just find their hotel again…

“Aha!” Sherlock ducked around two people and pointed triumphantly to a small door. “There we are!”

John squinted. “It looks different from last time,” he said doubtfully.

“That’s because we were approaching it from the other side,” Sherlock explained, tugging John along. To John’s delight they had indeed reached the hotel, and he shed his coat immediately, throwing it on the bed. 

“I told you not to bring that,” Sherlock scolded. 

“P.A.s are supposed to dress nicely,” John muttered. 

“Yes, but sweat stains are so unattractive,” Sherlock sniffed. He dodged John’s swat and sat on the bed, perusing the map intently. 

That was the part John hated the most about this role. Sherlock had a photographic memory and a wicked sense of direction. He’d also been to Venice before. However, they had to fit in—drawing attention right now would be fatal. And fitting in, being tourists…meant looking like they were lost. 

Which meant John wasn’t allowed to look at the map. 

“Can’t I just look for a moment—”

“No.”

“What if we get separated?”

“Just keep turning left and I’ll find you eventually.” 

“And if that leads to a canal?”

“You can swim, can’t you?”

John managed to hit him that time. 

“What are we even looking for?” he grumbled finally. 

Sherlock tossed him his phone. Three people stared up at him—Mandiña, Ludmila and a small young man with dark eyes and brown hair; he looked harmless. 

“Who’s the kid?”

“He’s Mandiña and Ludmila’s child from years back,” Sherlock replied absently. 

John sputtered. “They were together?” A sadist with a preference for children and an expert interrogator?

“Married for years,” Sherlock said. 

“That wasn’t in the profile.”

“Our ‘travel agent’ didn’t think it important. Now, of course, with Mandiña dead Ludmila’s suicide mission makes sense.” 

John shook his head. “Where does the kid come in?”

“Tomas is of age and he’s part of the family business. Ten bodies to his name, and twice as many hostage-takings. He works with his mother quite a bit, and now that his father’s dead she’ll want to be near him too.”

“Which is why she left Milan,” John realized. “She wants to see Tomas while he’s here finishing the job, then say goodbye.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Sentiment,” John reminded him. “My area, remember? So we’re looking for the kid too, then?”

Sherlock nodded. “They know better than to be seen in public together, and since those are the only two we know for sure are here…” 

“Shouldn’t we try to find out the others?” 

“The travel agent—I can’t wait until I can stop saying that, can you?” John couldn’t help his grin, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow before grinning himself. “There are others on the way, others who will know the other players. Our job is to find the son, and keep him in our sight. We’ve been…requested not to play a larger part.”

John was surprised. “Why not? We’re here, and we don’t know how long they’ll wait…” his voice trailed off. “But Ludmila will make sure Tomas gets to safety.” 

“He’s the canary. If Venice is going to sink, he’ll be gone, and we can sound the alarm.” 

“Then we’d better find him.” 

************************************

Two hours later and John was ready to give up. Venice wasn’t that big, and Tomas was nowhere to be found. Of course, he could be hiding inside, and of course he could simply be moving in the opposite direction from them, constantly moving away, but all they could do until backup came was look anyways—they were completely useless in their hotel room. 

They were now among the tiny streets that barely made it onto the map, and John was seconds away from suggesting a stop for the pizza he could smell when he spotted a wild, dark mop of hair.  
John looked closer; it was Tomas, staring at a map. If he wasn’t the son of two terrifying assassins and pretty strong himself, John would say he looked scared. 

He shared a look with Sherlock. _How do you want to do this?_

_Follow my lead._

John inclined his head. 

Sherlock walked over to Tomas. “Having trouble, young man?” His German accent was atrocious, but that was rather the point. Tomas looked up, no doubt expecting a familiar assassin face, identified by the poor attempt at an accent. Instead he saw a stranger, who just so happened to have a knife poking out from his sleeve. 

Before Tomas could get any ideas, John stepped up. “I think we can help you.”

John was expecting for Tomas to run, to fight…anything, but the boy simply put his hands up, map dangling. “If you get me out of this place I will surrender.” His Italian was excellent, but his voice was shaking, thready with stress. 

John shot a quick glance at Sherlock, then looked around to make sure no one was watching. “Do you know who we are?”

“You are Interpol, or MI6, or agents of your own power,” Tomas said dully. “I know that you must know what I am and what I do, and you may have some idea of what I am doing here. I know all of this…” and the boy’s face took on a tortured look. “But I do not know where I am.”

John felt a burst of sympathy. “It’s hard to navigate here, isn’t it?” 

Tomas turned wild eyes on him. “Hard? It is impossible! I do not understand why my mother loves this city so! I would love to ask her, but I do not know where she is!” 

“We’re going to have to speak to her as well.” Sherlock had abandoned the German accent for a deep growl of a voice. “You will lead us to her…well, you will tell us where she is.”

Tomas turned his chin up. “Then there is something else I want.”

“Your parents’ safety? We cannot deliver on your father, he’s already dead,” Sherlock said bluntly. 

Tomas glared. “I don’t give a damn about Father, he was always a bastard. But Mama…she’s always been good to me. Can you…maybe not kill her?”

John searched Tomas’ face, but there was really no reason to disbelieve the man, who was really no more than a boy. Assassins seemed to live a lonely life, but Ludmila had tried to make time for her child…surely that counted for something? 

“We’ll do you one better,” he said at last. Sherlock was staring at him, but he went on. “You tell us everything you know about this plan to sink Venice, and we’ll make sure you end up in the same prison.” 

Tomas’ face lit up. “Done.” 

“Oh we will, will we?” Sherlock was glaring now. 

“Yes,” John said firmly. “We will.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine. You’d better pray that decision makes it all the way up the chain.”

“I’ll send him a cake to be sure.” 

Sherlock laughed, face clearing. He slung an arm around Tomas’ shoulders, pulling the baffled assassin along with them. “Excellent. Just don’t send lemon; he doesn’t care for it.”

John grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now, which way is it again?”

“Straight ahead for now, I’ll tell you when to turn.” 

“I thought you said you knew the way out!” Tomas sounded panicked again. 

“He does,” John replied. “That’s enough for me.” 

***************************************

That night they stood in the Piazza San Marco, watching pigeons chase scraps as they ate behind velvet ropes and listened to passable music. John’s eyes had widened at the prices, but Sherlock insisted he get what he like—Mycroft, after all, was footing the bill. 

Tomas had been very helpful; his mother less so, but she did explain that Tomas had once gotten lost as a child when she’d brought him along on a mission. “He was nearly killed, so he tries to know where he is at all times. This city does make that hard,” she said, smiling at her son. Apparently there were no hard feelings. 

Venice wasn’t going to sink, at least not any time soon. Now that it was cooling off and he’d had a few glasses of wine, John was feeling quite charitable about the city. It wasn’t so bad after all. They’d done good work that day. 

But where we they going next?

Sherlock hadn’t said anything about their next mission, and John didn’t ask at dinner, both preferring to eat in silence. Once they’d gotten up and started walking along the river, though, John couldn’t wait any longer. 

“Where do you feel like going next, boss?” 

Sherlock turned away, looking out at the water. “How about home?”

John froze. “Are you…are you sure?”

Sherlock turned, a wide grin on his face. He thrust his phone at John. This time it was open to an article from the London Times. There’d been a murder three days before; the young son of a tycoon, found dead from a gunshot wound in his bedroom, door locked, no weapon. 

“Mycroft confirmed it while we were at dinner,” Sherlock whispered with fierce joy. “It was Moran.” When John just looked confused, he elaborated. “Your sniper.”

John couldn’t speak.

“With Mandiña and Ludmila out of the way, we can go after Moran together without worrying.” Sherlock was still smiling, although he looked a bit uncertain now. “We can leave tomorrow.”

John had a thousand questions—how did Sherlock know his sniper’s name, how long had he known, who was Moran, what was the plan, but there was only one question that really mattered. 

“We can really go home?” Sherlock nodded and John gave him a brief, tight hug. “Let’s go pack!” 

The rest of the evening went by in a blur of packing and double checking that they’d tied everything up and chatting with Anthea and the others tying up operation ‘Sink Venice’, texting Mycroft, making plans for dealing with Moran…John didn’t really have time to think until he’d persuaded Sherlock to sleep a bit (“I’m not actually your P.A., Sherlock, you can listen to me!”) 

Lying in bed in blissfully cool air conditioning, John listened to Sherlock breathe in the other bed. That would change after tomorrow, he thought. They didn’t share a room at 221b. 

In fact, a lot of things would be changing. They’d be going back to riding the Tube, working (and fighting) with the Yard, walking old familiar streets and watching crap telly. Which sounded great, of course, but he didn’t think he was going to be quite the same John that he used to be. 

That made sense; the John who left for Afghanistan wasn’t nearly the same one who came back, and both of those Johns were different to the kid who’d run away to university at seventeen. He’d expected himself to change; what he hadn’t expected was his relationship with Sherlock to change.

They were still close, of course they were, but there was something a bit odd about looking over at your sleeping flatmate and realizing you’d been everything from his son to his lover to his boss in a year. Looking back at all their adventures, John was forced to admit that he didn’t know what he and Sherlock were to each other anymore. 

He wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. 

John sighed and rolled over. Whatever they were, they were still heading home tomorrow, and that was a good thing. They would figure out the rest after the Web was gone. It would be fine. 

Wouldn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now let me explain: when I went to Venice my friend and I were lost, very hot, tired after a night train and we had very heavy bags...so apologies to any people who love Venice. As John found out, it is nice sometimes, but the getting lost thing...that happened about 85 times. Tomas was me. We're heading back to London next, stay tuned!


	10. London II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in London, John and Sherlock have a few friends to see...and one old enemy (though they've never been introduced).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, two notes this time.  
> 1) For those of you who are original canon fans, this takes Empty House more or less literally when it comes to the crime, although it's been updated a wee bit.  
> 2) So there are two pairings introduced in this chapter--I wasn't sure if I should include them in the tags, one because I wanted it to be a surprise, and both because they're not central to this story at all. If anyone thinks I should tag them I will absolutely do it. As a heads up, one of them is Moran/Moriarty, and the other...well, you'll see in a minute (It's not Johnlock, but it is slash).

When they finally got off the plane, John was stunned by how at home he felt. 

Heathrow hadn’t exactly been a source of happy memories—limping off the plane from Afghanistan with no one to greet him was the worst—but everything was suddenly, absurdly _British_. From the accents of the customs agents to Costa coffee, it felt like they’d just been on holiday for a few days and were now back to their own world. 

Then Sherlock was walking swiftly towards a man in a painfully boring suit with a sign for ‘Mr. Wilson’, and John remembered that they were not quite out of the woods yet. 

At least they were English ones again. 

***********************************

John thought they’d be going to the Diogenes Club—it was, after all, a Saturday, the only day Mycroft seemed to have off and the only day Sherlock found him there without fail (if he thought that John didn’t notice Sherlock sending several texts each Saturday with a gleeful look on his face he was an idiot). Instead, they drove deep into central London, up to an oddly normal set of flats. 

The boring suit bloke (he didn’t even provide a fake name) stayed in the car, so John and Sherlock went up alone. Sherlock seemed to know the way, not pausing to even check the number of stairs. John followed, suddenly nervous. He’d spoken to Mycroft once or twice on the phone, and sent emails and texts, but he hadn’t seen the man face to face since he’d shouted at him before Sherlock’s funeral. The words ‘biggest disgrace of a brother he’d ever seen’ might have been said. 

Mycroft’s flat was on the third floor, the only door in sight other than the lift. It occurred to John that Mycroft must be rich. It made sense—important government position, unlimited usefulness (except in getting his brother to cooperate)…if he was Mycroft’s boss he would give him anything. 

Sherlock didn’t even bother knocking, he simply drew a tiny key from under his watch and waved it in front of the peephole. The door swung open without a sound and Sherlock strode in, John behind him. 

The flat looked oddly…normal for the lair of the British Government. A small living room greeted them— a chair next to a fireplace, walls of books and a cabinet of odd objects John couldn’t even hope to guess at. There was a door leading off the room at the far end. John glanced towards Sherlock, but before he could suggest knocking Mycroft came through the door, stopping dead in his tracks just over the threshold. 

Sherlock stepped forward, his shoulders suddenly tense. “Hello brother.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s face twitched, just a little but enough to make Sherlock straighten his back. John was braced for some sort of lecture about breaking into the flat, or taking too long, or something along those lines.

He was not at all expecting Mycroft to surge forward and pull Sherlock into a tight embrace.

Judging by Sherlock’s squawk, he hadn’t been expecting it either. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake…”

“Quiet,” Mycroft ordered, not letting go even as Sherlock attempted to make himself as angular as possible. “I’ve been concerned.”

Sherlock sighed deeply, but John noticed him leaning into his brother’s hold. “As you can see, we’re both fine. Now let me go.”

Mycroft appeared to notice John for the first time as he let go of Sherlock. He looked at John in that same piercing way he had the first night they’d met, when John had been perhaps a little bit afraid of him. Then he held out his hand. 

“Thank you, John. For bringing him back.” 

John did not let his mouth drop open, though he came close. “You’re welcome.” He shook Mycroft’s hand firmly, trying to show a little of his gratitude for all the help on their travels. 

Mycroft let go and turned abruptly to the bookshelf. “Well, let’s get to business, shall we?” He pulled an old, battered book off the shelf—except it didn’t quite come off. There was a soft click and a section of the bookshelf swung open, revealing another room with a desk, chair and several computers humming quietly. 

“Brilliant,” John whispered. 

Sherlock glared at him, but Mycroft looked gratified. “I do still need to work from home occasionally.” 

Sherlock strode into the hidden room. “You mean you work from here whenever you can find an excuse.” 

Mycroft looked like he was going to retort, but John got between them. “Can’t you two stop pretending you don’t care about each other for more than three seconds at a time?”

“No,” came from both Sherlock and Mycroft. 

“Of course not,” John agreed, rolling his eyes. “What was I thinking? Can we please talk about this murder?”

Mycroft nodded. He crossed to the desk and tapped a few keys on a modest-looking laptop. The screens around the room lit up with a news article headed HEIR’S DEATH STILL UNSOLVED. 

“Ronny Adair, twenty-six, had a fiancée but they broke it off last year when they both came out, still good friends, found dead in his childhood bedroom by his mother and sister.” Mycroft read the facts off with complete disinterest. “He was staying with them for his sister’s birthday—otherwise lives alone in Kensington. Frequent visitor to a lot of the gay clubs in the area, well liked, no known enemies.” 

John frowned. “Doesn’t sound like he’s involved in the Web at all.”

“He isn’t.”

“So why would Moran kill him? Does he want to draw us out?”

“As far as we know, Moran is unaware that Sherlock is alive and that you are anywhere other than America,” Mycroft answered. “Moran chose not to follow you because coordination of the Network from another continent would have been a nightmare. Sentiment may have also had something to do with it.”

“Sentiment?”

“Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty were lovers. Didn’t you know?”

John stared at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. They appear to have had a quiet love affair going on for some time.”

John closed his eyes. “Right, fine. Is there anything else we should know about Moran? Other than that he’ll shoot me on sight if he knows Sherlock’s alive?”

“Any pertinent information was in the file I sent you last night. Did you not read it?”

“He’s a sniper, went bad in Iraq, came back to London, was secretly Moriarty’s right-hand man that we somehow never knew about…also _Moriarty’s lover_ , since when do psychopaths feel love?”

“From their correspondence it appears to have been more sex than love,” Mycroft offered. “They kept La Fiore busy for nearly a year until she refused to be their ‘sext owl’ anymore.”

“Lovely.” John briefly wondered when this had become his life.

“I said dangerous, and here you are,” Sherlock pointed out. 

“Yes, thank you, I know,” John snapped. Ignoring Mycroft’s bewildered look, he gestured to the screens. “Back to the question at hand—why did Moran kill Adair?”

“Moran and Adair have been seen together at a few clubs; they don’t appear to be lovers but there’s certainly some connection there.” Mycroft waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, this is your chance to catch Moran and have something to pin on him legally. He’s been very careful so far, this is the first murder where he’s actually left some evidence. The gun he used is one of a kind in Europe, at least; Scotland Yard can’t pull it together for that very reason. You give them Moran, and that’ll be it for the Web and for any danger to you two from Moriarty’s will. You’ll be free to concern yourself with little problems again.” 

Sherlock cracked his knuckles. “Well, we mustn’t stand about. We’ve got to go see Mrs. Hudson and get her ready for her part—”

“Not to mention telling her you’re alive,” John interjected. 

“That’s what I just said!”

“We can’t just waltz in…”

“You can sort this out on your way to Baker Street,” Mycroft said firmly, indicating the door. “Do call when you have everything sorted out, and I will notify the police.”

“We can do that ourselves,” Sherlock snapped as he walked towards the door, “we’re going to see Lestrade…”

But before Sherlock could say when they were planning to see their Scotland Yard friend, the front door opened and Greg Lestrade stood there, more gray hair than before and worry lines etched deeply into his forehead. Nevertheless, he was smiling, but when he saw Sherlock and John all the colour went out of his face. 

“Gregory, step in, quickly,” Mycroft said urgently. Greg obeyed, his face slack with shock. John shifted uneasily, the guilt at deceiving their friends he’d been swallowing all year coming into his throat. 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Smoking again, Lestrade? Those things will kill you.”

John wanted to strangle him. He thought Greg might be about to, just for a moment. 

The Detective Inspector growled. “Oh, you bastard.” 

Sherlock wisely realized that perhaps that might have been a Bit Not Good. “Graham, I—”

“Shut up,” Greg said firmly, and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. “You utter, utter, mad _bastard_.”

John’s throat went tight as he watched Sherlock hesitantly return the hug. “I had no other choice, but I realize this must have been…difficult.”

Greg gave a strangled laugh and let go of Sherlock, holding him at arm’s length. “Bit of an understatement, that.” He turned to John. “And you knew the whole time, did you?” 

“Not the first week,” John said immediately. “I swear, Greg, I didn’t—”

This time John found himself being squeezed half to death. “You’re both bastards,” Greg said, voice muffled by John’s shoulder. “Not much of a surprise, really.” 

John swallowed around the lump in his throat. He hadn’t quite realized how much he’d missed Greg. “Sorry,” he replied. “We did have a good reason, though, there were—”

“Snipers, one for you, one for me, and one for the lovely Mrs. Hudson?” Greg pulled away, grinning at John. “Yeah, Moriarty was a twat. Good job he offed himself, it’d be a shame to arrest someone for his murder.”

John’s head was spinning. “How did you know that?”

Greg blinked. “The Yard—well, some of us—have been working on it all year, with some help from your Homeless Network and a couple of others. Your names are cleared, you’re welcome.”

John sighed with relief. “Thank you.” Mycroft had told the two of them not to worry about the tabloids and Richard Brook, that he’d deal with them, but the worry had still been there. 

“That’s why I’m here,” Greg went on. “We were going to celebrate—although now I see there was more to be glad for.”

“We?”

Greg glanced at Mycroft. “So you didn’t tell them, Myc?”

Sherlock stared between Greg and Mycroft. “What did you just…” His eyes widened with horror. “No. No.” 

John caught on. “You can’t be—you two?”

Mycroft _blushed_. 

John shook his head in amazement. “I can’t believe…” he looked at Sherlock and started laughing. Sherlock looked like someone had told him Father Christmas wasn’t real.

“Congratulations,” he finally managed to wheeze. “Didn’t expect that, but…congratulations.” He tried to get a grip on himself, looking anywhere but at Sherlock and Mycroft.

Greg grinned, looking a bit sheepish. “Thanks, mate.” 

Sherlock still looked shell-shocked.

“Well,” Mycroft said, clearly trying to salvage the situation, “you two had better get to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson may need some time to recover from the shock…”

“She’s not the only one who’s had a shock,” John said slyly. 

“And you will need to get yourselves into position,” Mycroft continued, blush still high in his cheeks. 

“Because it’s already past one, and Moran will definitely come to shoot someone before dark,” John agreed. “We do need eight hours to cross the street.” 

Mycroft glared at him, but John just smiled. “Come on Sherlock, Mycroft’s right. We should go home. Let’s leave them to their lunch date.” 

Sherlock nodded. They left quietly, not speaking as they went down the stairs. John didn’t dare look at Sherlock again.

The boring suit bloke was still there, standing almost at attention next to the car. Sherlock got in and sat stiffly. He only spoke when the car started moving.

“Do you think we’ll get a happy announcement sometime later in the week?”

John gave up and howled with laughter.

*******************************************

It felt strange walking up to Baker Street in disguise, but the last thing they wanted was Mrs. Hudson shrieking on the street—there was still a certain amount of surveillance around Baker Street. John had already spotted two lower-level recruits of Moriarty’s, and almost ‘tsked’ aloud at how sloppy they were. 

Glancing quickly at Sherlock—he seemed to have recovered himself, though a strange half-smile, half-frown was pulling at his lips—John rang the doorbell. 

A few moments later Mrs. Hudson opened the door. John winced as he saw the increased lines, the weary half-smile, the pain in their landlady’s eyes. 

“Can I help you gentlemen?” 

This was supposed to be John’s line, but he suddenly found that he could not speak.

“We’d like to take a look at your basement flat,” Sherlock said. His voice had gone croaky.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. “I suppose so. Come in, please.” 

They followed her in. Sherlock shut the door with a bit more force than necessary. Mrs. Hudson spun around, clearly about to be indignant, but Sherlock pulled off his fake beard and wig, rising to his proper height. “Apologies, Mrs. Hudson,” he said briskly. “Though I suppose it’s better than gunshots.”

Mrs. Hudson stared at Sherlock, backing up a few steps. “Sherlock?”

John quickly removed his own disguise. “It’s really him, Mrs. Hudson. I know it’s hard to believe—we’re so sorry, we owe you a huge apology, but we’re back now…” he cleared his throat. “Can we come home?”

Mrs. Hudson sobbed and wrapped them both in a tight hug. “Of course you can…I can’t believe it…you’re h-home…” 

John hugged her back as tightly as he could manage, closing his eyes tightly. He’d missed Greg, and even Mycroft to some extent, but this woman, their landlady-housekeeper-counsellor…the closest thing he had to a mother…now he really felt like they’d come home. 

Mrs. Hudson finally let go and stepped back, dabbing at her eyes. “Are you back to stay?” she asked hopefully.

“We will be,” John said hesitantly. “We need to do something first, and we’ll need your help for that.” 

“Of course you do,” Mrs. Hudson smiled. “I’ll get the kettle on, and some food into you, you’ve both lost too much weight. No arguments, Sherlock,” she warned.  
Sherlock didn’t even bother protesting. 

***************************************

Close to nine hours later (Mrs. Hudson insisted on hearing their stories and telling them all the gossip of Baker St. for the last year) John and Sherlock were in position across the street. The old empty house was due to be condemned soon, but the floors were still mostly sound and the top windows looked directly onto their flat. 

In other words, it was the perfect place to watch for a sniper.

Mycroft had arranged the rest that afternoon (Sherlock kept texting him asking for ‘details’ about the lunch date; Mycroft had ignored all thirty). There were cops somewhere on the street, a government sniper stationed in case something went wrong, and two dolls in Baker Street.

John thought that part was a bit silly, but Sherlock had insisted that the sniper would need targets. The dolls were remarkably lifelike, and with the curtains partly drawn there was no way to tell they weren’t the real Sherlock and John. Even squinting through binoculars, John couldn’t see Mrs. Hudson, who was positioned in the room behind one of the chairs, moving the dolls every so often to make sure they seemed alive. 

John glanced sideways at Sherlock. The other man seemed relaxed, but his jaw betrayed his tension. This had to work, otherwise they would have to keep hiding. Thinking of going back underground, when they had just gotten home…John shook his head. No, everything was going to be fine. 

The next few hours passed in absolute silence. John passed the time by trying to spot the Yarders—Mycroft had said six, and he spotted four before eleven—and remembering other stakeouts like this, both during their travels and long before the Fall, when they were just looking for ordinary thieves and murderers. Was it wrong, he wondered, to wish for those times again?

The only thing that made him sure that time was passing was the striking of the city clocks, and even they seemed slow that night. Was it really only fifteen minutes past twelve? John’s legs were cramped, but they had to stay by the window, they had to see where the sniper shot from…

And then there was a creaking behind them. 

John didn’t even think; he grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pulled him away from the window and behind the old chair in the far corner. It was a tight squeeze for the two, but it was the only cover in the room.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

This house was the perfect place to watch for a sniper. It was also the ideal place for a sniper to shoot from. 

A tall, thin man came in, face hidden in the shadows. He carried a violin case over one shoulder, but John had a feeling the man wasn’t going to play them a sonata.

The man opened the case and began taking out…were those pieces of a Nerf gun?

John watched in absolute shock as one of the most dangerous snipers in the world assembled a child’s toy. Was it meant to be a joke?

And then the final piece was added, a simple metal tube that replaced the regular nozzle, and it stopped being funny. 

Because of course, there were no ballistics tests for Nerf guns. Especially not modified Nerf guns. That was what was so odd about Adair’s wounds.

The moon came out for a brief moment, illuminating Moran’s face as he shouldered the gun. “This is for you, Jim,” he whispered, aimed out the window, and fired two shots. Glass shattered twice—once in the room, once across the street and John heard someone scream.

Moran stood, a savage look of—not joy, not even happiness, just a horrible relief. Then Sherlock leapt out from behind the chair, John an instant behind him.

The next few seconds were a blur; Moran was caught by surprise but quite adaptable; he nearly had Sherlock by the throat before John could get the cuffs on him. Even when he was cuffed John had to slam him against the wall to get him to stop struggling. “Enough, Moran,” he snapped. “Game’s up.”

Moran stared at them, wild eyed. “You fiends,” he whispered. “You clever, clever fiends.”

John smiled tightly, hands firmly restraining Moran. “Nice to actually see you.”

Moran’s face worked, then hardened. “I can’t say the same.”

His eyes were dimming, the passion going as the situation sunk in. John looked closely at the man who, only a year ago, had a gun trained on him as he stood in front of St. Bart’s. 

“You were his, weren’t you?” John asked, suddenly understanding. Whatever Mycroft thought, it hadn’t just been sex between Moran and Moriarty. At least not on Moran’s part.

Moran nodded jerkily. “From the beginning. Even if he didn’t think so,” he added bitterly. “He’s gone now, so I suppose it doesn’t matter.” 

John recognized the tone; that desperate, lonely tone. “I’m sorry for your loss, Colonel,” he said sincerely.

Moran stared back at him in confusion, then lowered his eyes. “Thank you, Captain.” 

Greg Lestrade and—oh, lovely—Donovan and Anderson came into the room, guns drawn. “Everything alright?” Greg asked. The other two were staring wide-eyed, and John felt a savage satisfaction. 

“We’re fine,” Sherlock said, “although this wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I asked for an ideal vantage point.”

“To be fair, we did get an excellent view,” John pointed out. 

Sherlock hauled Moran to his feet, and Greg took charge of him, the sniper putting up no resistance. “Sebastian Moran, you’re charged with the attempted murders of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.”

“No, no, no, not for that,” Sherlock moaned. “There’s no need for that. Arrest him for Adair’s murder, he’s the one that did it.”  
Greg stared at Moran. “Did you now? Right, excellent. I’ll get your statements from you two tomorrow, shall I? think there’s a few people at the Yard who’d like to see you.”

“You also don’t want them thinking you’re mad and seeing ghosts,” John answered. 

“We’ll be there, Greg,” Sherlock confirmed.

“For the hundredth time, it’s—” Greg stopped. Then he shook his head. “Only took you half a bloody decade.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Graham,” Sherlock huffed. John snorted.

“Do I really have to listen to this nonsense?” Moran asked. 

“Donovan, Anderson, take the Colonel down, please,” Greg said by way of answer. They did so, Anderson sneaking looks at Sherlock and John the whole way out of the room.

“Want to join us for a nightcap, Greg?” John asked. 

Greg hesitated.

Sherlock grimaced. “Mycroft is in the area. He will want to hear a report. He may as well join us now.”

Greg blushed. “Right, then.” He started to leave, then turned and looked at them both. “It’s over now, isn’t it?”

John looked around the old, lonely room with the odd gun and the broken window, the remnants of their last battle with their worst enemies. 

“It is,” he said in awe. “It finally is.”

“Marvellous,” Sherlock said. “Now let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the last of the Web shredded! Next chapter we have an important conversation between the lads as they deduce the results of their travels. Cheers!


	11. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a moment of quiet between one storm and the next, Sherlock and John take stock.

About an hour later, after several celebratory cheers and one surprise kiss between Greg and Mycroft, the others began to drift out, Lestrade to fill out paperwork, Mrs. Hudson to get to sleep (“it’s important to keep to some kind of schedule, loves!”) and Mycroft to do whatever creeper government agent older brothers did. John took his case upstairs, marveling at how every creak still sounded familiar, sounded right, even a year later. 

He unpacked his clothes slowly, shocked that they looked so normal in the dim light of his lamp. They were the only clothes he’d worn in a year, a year across three continents, two dozen countries and countless cities…they were plain but they were still instantly recognizable…the shirt from the ‘trial run’ in Paris, the trousers neatly patched from the stab wound in Brussels…his Professor outfit and his P.A. socks…

John looked down at the pile of clothing on his bed. He should really start putting things away, but these clothes didn’t belong in his drawers. These were the clothes of other men, disguises though they might be, and they weren’t going to be put with his clothes, the ones he’d missed. 

He moved the pile to the floor and pulled on his favourite jumper. The smell of tea and smoke and home that still clung to it after a year shocked him, but he was very glad. It was really starting to hit him; they were back, and back for good. The Web was shredded, the snipers taken out…their family was safe. 

John knew he should go to bed—it was past one now—but he wasn’t quite sleepy enough. A cup of tea would help that, although that was assuming they had any tea left at all. Mrs. Hudson had gone out quite briefly earlier, though, so there was a chance that whatever was in their cupboard was not a year old. 

John put on some slippers and walked downstairs carefully. He hadn’t wanted to wake anybody, but he immediately saw that it wouldn’t be a problem. 

Sherlock stood next to the broken window, looking down at Baker Street. He was in pajamas, but he clearly hadn’t been resting. His eyes were unfocused. John wondered what he was really looking at. 

“Do you want a cup of tea?” 

Sherlock nodded. Still sort of here, then. Not in his mind palace, at least not deeply. 

John didn’t speak as he prepared the tea, absentmindedly touching each of their mugs, remembering why Sherlock had bought each one of them. Most of them were replacements after experiments gone wrong or burglars (Sherlock let them in occasionally and made them run into a disturbingly creative assortment of traps, some of them involving shards of china). They were all different except for two pale blue mugs that John had bought right after he’d moved into Baker Street. It was a tradition he’d kept up faithfully his whole life—new place, new mug. These two were on sale, and John had broken his Afghanistan mugs after he returned, so he thought he could justify buying two. 

Now that he thought about it, it was odd that these two had survived. 

He took them down, washed them and poured in the boiling water, adding tea bags. He brought one in to Sherlock, who took it without speaking.

For a few moments they stood there, Sherlock leaning against the window sill, John with his hip against Sherlock’s chair. John breathed in the cool summer London air, letting his thoughts wander as he sipped his tea.

“Does it feel strange to you?” Sherlock asked.

“Being home?” John clarified. At Sherlock’s nod, he thought about it. “I…not exactly. It feels stranger to be out of disguise.” He’d never gotten used to the scratchy wigs and itchy facial hair, and was relieved to have shaved off the mustache for the last time. 

Sherlock looked at him carefully. “Nothing else?”

“Not running for our lives is a nice change.” 

Sherlock’s lips quirked. “Thought you liked danger.”

“Not all the time.” John paused. “What’s going on with you?” 

A year ago, Sherlock might not have answered. Now he stared down into his cup of tea, and John just waited. 

“I was thinking, last night, about how we’ve been…different to each other.”

John raised his eyebrows. “You mean with the disguises?”

“Obviously.” Still impatient as ever. “You must have felt it too, at some point. I know we set out as friends, but what are we now? Who—who am I, to you?” 

The fact that he’d said that much told John how terrified Sherlock was. They’d both wanted to get home, to get back to their mad version of normal, but whether or not they liked it John knew there was more to be acknowledged before they did.

Trying to find an answer for Sherlock, he too examined his mug. This one of two, mugs that had been left in peace by their crazy lives, never broken, not even scratched.

And then he realized what had changed. And more importantly, what had stayed the same.

“I think you’re my Sherlock,” John said quietly. “And I’m your John, and I think we’ve been that way since the beginning and haven’t realized because we were both afraid of something we didn’t want.”

“I’m not in love with you,” Sherlock blurted out.

“And I’m not in love with you,” John replied calmly. “But you know what? I’d be okay with that if that’s what you wanted, and I’m okay that you don’t want it. I will be whatever you need me to be, because I know you’ll do the same.”

Sherlock considered him carefully, then reached out his hand. John took it, letting long fingers close around his. “I will.” He tugged carefully and John stepped forward, leaning his head against the detective’s shoulder. 

“What do we tell people?” Sherlock asked. 

“What do they need to know that they already don’t?” John replied. “You’re my best friend still, always have been, and that’s as good a label as any.”

Sherlock thought for a minute. “So I suppose we’re stuck with each other.”

John laughed. “Damn right.” He looked up at Sherlock. “It’s rather nice to belong to someone. I haven’t in a long time.” 

“With someone,” Sherlock corrected. “You’re not a possession, John. Don’t do impressions of idiots.” His hand tightened. “Although I do know what you mean.” 

They stood in silence for a minute.

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“The Chinese place is still open.”

“Let’s go then,” John said with a smile. He let go of Sherlock’s hand and stepped away, placing his mug on the table and reaching for his coat. Sherlock put his mug down next to John’s and followed him down the stairs, only a step behind. 

The next day there’d be paperwork and visits and maybe new cases, and they might not speak of what they’d just promised—they might never do so again. But they didn’t really have to, John thought as they walked up the street together. They knew, and by any name people called them—flatmates, friends, lovers, partners—they belonged with each other. 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! For me John and Sherlock are life partners, platonic in this case though not necessarily so. I thought this might be a fun way of exploring that relationship.  
> Thanks to my best friend and trusty co-traveller, without whom I would have never seen all these lovely places (yes, even Venice, but especially Florence.)  
> Also thanks to everyone who's left kudos and comments, they've meant the world.  
> Further thanks (wow this is getting long, but I have lots of appreciation) for my writer friends, who helped me with editing and details like 'no chamomile doesn't leave dregs'. I wouldn't have had the courage to post this without their approval and encouragement.  
> I will probably be writing in this universe again, and definitely in this fandom, though I will be posting some other stories I have completed (look in the Supernatural and Harry Potter fandoms if you're interested) first, since I don't want to leave anyone hanging on a question mark).  
> Cheers, Acme


End file.
